Sandra Fowler Poems

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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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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Gray drops paint charcoal shadows on the skin.
They wear the windowpanes of old souls thin.
Hold out your hand against the falling light.
Believe with me that rain is infinite.
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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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Birds are in conversation with the dark.
They sing their elegies from power lines.
You clasp my hand to hold the music still.
Such stanzas, Friend, must not be winter lost.
...