A Touch Of Verse - Poem by Sandra Fowler
Light has exposed the landscape to its form.
Mood is rebuked of all its artifice.
Wind moves like winter through the naked trees.
I ask you for a leaf, but there is none.
Instead, you offer me a weather coat,
Gray as warm words reduced to whispering.
You tell me that November loves old bones.
Your frost accent is quite believable.
You paint a picture of our private sky.
The light falls faint upon my closing eyes.
Held close within a margin of rare words,
Stillness sings like a fragile, yellow bird.
Against the glass old memories ebb and flow.
A touch of verse becomes a touch of snow.
Our tiny world is slipping into space.
Only your precious hands hold it in place.
Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler
Comments about A Touch Of Verse by Sandra Fowler
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl