Sandra Fowler Poems

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.
...

We drink the evening in a frosted glass.
Nothing about the music is profane.
Your eyes hold all emotion very quiet.
Fey Shadows stretch landscapes beyond belief.
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Swift wings are tipped with brief poetic gold.
Luminous flight sustains its fragile self.
The moment is as rare as a May frost.
Small glitters are enriched with their own charm.
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I think forsythia is mellow light,
Beyond the confines of all wrong or right.
That warms war weary eyes against the night.
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One day I sent some words to Tel Aviv.
Perhaps, they whisper in the grasses yet.
Good-bye to my last teacher and my best.
A letter to be read over your grave.
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November falls...
We walk through endless eras of gray leaves.
The mood, exhilarating to mind touch,
Is painting us on white panes of the air.
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Cold sunshine writes our elegy in frost,
Author of light a million snowflakes lost,
All gone forever into swirling air,
A dance of death that is no longer there.
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You shape my bones into your hunting coat.
Rain slants like needles through the falling air.
The field is vast with the old blood of leaves.
Fire in the windows warms my eyes to sleep.
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My hand is still in yours. A distant leaf
Lies whisper killed upon the rigid grass.
Frost clinks like ice against the window glass.
When will monotony give us relief?
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To a poet of India for his warmth which can never be outdated
'With warmth for your severe winter', you said.
And every snowflake from my landscape fled.
I felt the sun from half a world away
...