Deft Fingers

Deft fingers sketch the ever falling sun, Paint good-bye on the lens of imagery. West fades across a field of goldenrod. Amber is warm elegiac to the touch. Shadows become a landscapes final gift. You tell me so with your eloquent eyes. One need not speak to be articulate. I hear what you could never say aloud. Above our heads, sky is autumn enhanced. I think it is a masterpiece in gray. You wrap your arms around me like a coat. And so we stand immersed in light's ebb tide. Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler