A Scent Of Snow
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
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