Your hands smell of wood shavings, sun's last grace. <br />That tawny essence fills all empty space. <br />I scarcely hear you talk of southbound birds. <br />Time has gone far beyond the mood of words. <br /> <br />The magic of the moment turns the landscape round. <br />That carousel defies all music to be found. <br />Only the wicked shadows carry us away <br />Into the insignificance of yesterday. <br /> <br />For we are common as the fallen leaves. <br />Who stops for them, or for such treasure grieves? <br />Frail bones enclose a memory that burns. <br />Smoke brings it back when bittersweet returns. <br /> <br />Friend. I shall love forever what is flawed, <br />The pattern of a hunter's face outlawed. <br />Thoughts trace him in the frost upon the glass. <br />Leaves whisper, hello, hello to the waiting grass.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sun-s-last-grace/
