A Touch Of Verse

Light has exposed the landscape to its form. Mood is rebuked of all its artifice. Wind moves like winter through the naked trees. I ask you for a leaf, but there is none. Instead, you offer me a weather coat, Gray as warm words reduced to whispering. You tell me that November loves old bones. Your frost accent is quite believable. You paint a picture of our private sky. The light falls faint upon my closing eyes. Held close within a margin of rare words, Stillness sings like a fragile, yellow bird. Against the glass old memories ebb and flow. A touch of verse becomes a touch of snow. Our tiny world is slipping into space. Only your precious hands hold it in place. Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler