Old Pictures
S Sandra Fowler
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Clouds hang old pictures on the wavering air,
Like wine wallpaper threadbare to the light.
Cold leaves cut shadows on the poet's cheek.
The clarity is bell like to the bone.
The sun pulls down the heavy cloth of sky,
Muffles the scissor sound of rising wind.
One red bird burns upon the rim of dark.
God knows what name would bring him winging back.
Previously published, 'Appalachian Heritage'
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