Sandra Fowler

Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk.
I think them to a poet far away.
The light shines dim upon my windowpane.
A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.
...

Our minds have become intimate with words.
We fly together like two paper birds.
Small creeks, big rivers and the mighty sea,
Sustains the lyrics of calligraphy.
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You made me love the teachings of Tagore.
My thoughts were mesmerized by your sitar.
I kept the little flowers from India,
Artfully pressed to span a century.
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If one could bridge the distance with a word,
A journey would become a pilgrimage.
Elegant letters slant across the page.
My leaf has found a home upon your coat.
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Arms hold the soundless music of the sky.
The lyricism of the soul burns high.
Brief poems dance with distance against space,
Snow interlocks the landscape into place.
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You claim my thoughts,
Though you have never seen your name in frost.
I think the window of a distant train
Still mirrors you like a poem in its glass.
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I sat against your knees all night.
I watched the sun rise in your coffee cup.
In all that time you never spoke to me.
I think I must have cried a thousand tears.
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Old leaves have no defence against the wind.
A gray hawk is October's inner cry.
The bells of Salem church play elegies.
Distance becomes a single snowflake's fall.
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A lilac for the anonymity,
Of Mrs. Hinkle's simple poetry.
It shines within the margins of its space,
A single note of captivating grace.
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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.
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Words will no longer come from you to me,
Handwritten from a land of minarets.
The imagery still lights my afterthoughts,
I wish you a long sunset, poet friend.
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Hands dream to trace the sculptures of old trees
That stand like dark wainscoting to the light.
Thickets of wordless poems capture thoughts,
Paint lowering moods upon gray window glass.
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The moon has interlocked the night in glass.
Trees are no more than dark designs on grass.
The mood of music opens like a flower.
A scent of coffee validates the hour.
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You wrote your Yiddish signature in rain.
I could not match it in a thousand years.
Old words are classic to my memory.
Because of you, my feet have wings this day.
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The very air is amber to the touch.
Gnarled fingers trace the signature of warmth.
The slant of sun becomes significant.
Ribbons of west fall grosgrain on tin roofs.
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How can I write a shadow beautiful?
It is elusive, haunting as old verse.
The wind transcribes the dusk upon pale leaves.
I touch your hand to prove the mood is real.
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Green leaves tap at my window like lost souls.
I trace their signatures upon the glass.
Dawn is only a few quatrains away.
I memorize the fragrance of spring rain.
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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.
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The moment is as delicate as flowers.
A call for trillium is a call for spring.
Dawn rises fragile as a yellow bird.
How many ways can light say beautiful?
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I met you in a poem, dark leaves fell.
Sun rode the swift tide of November fields.
Gray power enclosed the music of the form.
White trees startled the rhythm of quatrains.
...