I was picking flowers and you were praising smoke. <br />The echoes of that last time linger on. <br />Birds pieced from the gray quilt of the dusk <br />Sang mighty wholeness that is ever lost. <br /> <br />I held your face like summer in my hands. <br />The warmth was various, a rare suncut. <br />Wind played your tune through simple blades of grass. <br />You never heard it, but I hear it still. <br /> <br />Muse India<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1-echoes/
