Sandra Fowler Poems

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.
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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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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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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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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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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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