Sandra Fowler Poems

Sometimes at night I hear small birds lament.
Dark notes that seem to second moon's descent.
Cold is the color of a deep regret,
An etude perfected by winterset.
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One day you brought me raindrops in your hand.
'Here are some precious tears for you', you said.
A shadow bird was winging through the sky.
His silhouette escaped my finger tips.
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The glamor of the sun on old tin roofs.
I wonder why the moment seems so lost?
Long shadows follow summer into time.
The taste of going is the taste of wine.
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I think you frail blue windows of my thoughts,
Each pane a poem intricately wrought.
Via my faith, they reach your distant sill.
The music of two souls is never still.
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Snowflakes are falling like a gift of white.
The classic landscape burns incessant, bright.
Old panes picture, literally, scores of frost.
No single note of music has been lost.
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Millions of snowflakes gone, my poet friend,
Across the slanted February roofs,
You lift my hand in witness to whiteness,
That burns beyond the scope of human eyes.
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There is a blue fragrance, essence of dusk.
The smoke of last things lingers on old clothes.
Sun has become as rare as goldenrod.
I call for August, but no answer comes.
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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.
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Sun played its last tune among yellow flowers.
Yesterday's shadow overtakes the field.
Dusk lays its burden down on old tin roofs.
Soundlessness is a song profoundly blue.
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Caught in the bright eye of encroaching sun,
The music falls in windfalls of white fog.
Bird feather tracings of suggested flight
Hone moments to the sharpness of pale skies.
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