Your hand grows gnarled. <br />It makes a fretwork shadow on my face. <br />The judgment of the mood is Biblical. <br />I hear you counting red leaves as they fall. <br /> <br />Frost angels write <br />Their thousand times ten thousand names on panes. <br />The heavy candlelabra of gray trees <br />Lifts ribbon flames of fading warmth in prayer. <br /> <br />Is this the end? <br />The woodsmoke of the dusk is indigo. <br />Your gnarled hand has become less intricate. <br />Its pressure no more than a passing cloud. <br /> <br />The bells of dusk <br />Ring clearly from an Appalachian height. <br />The cold, gold force of sunset is a shout. <br />Silence reverberates in brevity. <br /> <br />I stand alone <br />My cheekbones brushed by high white peaks of wind. <br />The ancient whisper comes from everywhere, <br />'This count includes the tears that make a sea'<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bells-of-dusk/
