A Touch Of Amber
S Sandra Fowler
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The very air is amber to the touch.
Gnarled fingers trace the signature of warmth.
The slant of sun becomes significant.
Ribbons of west fall grosgrain on tin roofs.
You ask me once to catch a yellow leaf
And send it to you in an envelope.
I smile to think of such fragility.
The scent of autumn is the scent of light.
I think, my friend, the world is going down
Behind elegiac West Virginia hills.
An old tree whispers brightness to the dusk.
Our music runs like veins through all its leaves.
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