Sandra Fowler (February,4,1937 / W. Columbia, WV, USA)
My friend, I think the sunset knows our names.
Old leaves are whispering them to windowpanes.
A Jew's harp wind plays the elusive dusk.
Blueness comes in like a compelling tide.
The August fingers of the western light
Is writing us into its history book.
You promise me that good-bye will be gold
And glorious as our mortality.
Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler
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