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.
Frail April snow, the blue smoke of old moods,
And filigree of nailprints on the mind,
A shadow paints the windowpane of dreams,
That young God-Man who gave Himself for spring.
Previously published in my book, 'The Colors Cry In Rain'.
Apollo Books, Inc.