The moon is lemon light, November cold.
The wind is blowing colors all apart.
Old leaves are writing their last signature
Upon the dimming windows of the world.
Time is a gray bird grazing fingertips.
It flies so far the mind cannot forge chains.
One feather falls like solace on bare hands,
An autumn gesture, yet how comforting!
A scent of snow is fragrant on the air.
Deep hollows will be filled with small white stars.
The very thought of that is beautiful,
A lunar landscape fit for fairy tales.
Our night is falling in the window glass,
Subtle as shadows, all its secrets kept.
You paint me quatrains for a souvenir,
Verses become my early Christmas gift.
2008, Sandra Fowler
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem