I Count The Frosts
S Sandra Fowler
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Snowflakes are falling like a gift of white.
The classic landscape burns incessant, bright.
Old panes picture, literally, scores of frost.
No single note of music has been lost.
I hold your thoughts across a world of space,
Watching the colors dance in my fireplace.
Your message came on wings of winter birds,
'True poets give themselves away in words.'
Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler
Published in, 'World Poets Quarterly.China'
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