Sandra Fowler Poems
(1) Before The Music Ends
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 time has been short listed by sunset,
No matter that the weather has its way,
The stresses live within their measurement,
And distance is a gift we give ourselves.
This moment is designed to be as spare
And elegant as winter's old, gnarled trees.
I trust you to translate my whispers, Friend
And send them back before the music ends.
Something So Fine
You must not look at me in failing light.
The measure of the moment is too bright.
The cold, gold sunset hurts my eyes tonight.
I will not listen to those panes of gray.
Touch was so articulate that day
The smoke of ironweed warmed resolve away.
Your West Virginia face was poetry.