Before The Frost

Frail woodsmoke smells as fragrant as the dusk, A West Virginia red bird for your thoughts. Our shadows stretch as far as Salem church, The place where poetry first came to me. Two miles away in West Columbia, A train whistles its version of the blues. The landscape fades in tune with loneliness. Such sweet sadness is not replacable. It is the last day for the goldenrod. Old eyes record the fall of mellow light. Frost is only a windowpane away. You close my fingers on a sunset leaf. Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler