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.
How strange the loss of letters matters when
We never met in ordinary life.
And yet, 'As always' is my signature.
I hope warmth travels safely without stamps.
My eyes look through the old panes of the soul,
Remembering work of threadbare elegance.
Perhaps such verses will survive your west,
Invoking dawn against a distant glass.
Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler
Sandra Fowler's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem ((1) Afterthoughts by Sandra Fowler )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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