My hand is still in yours. A distant leaf <br />Lies whisper killed upon the rigid grass. <br />Frost clinks like ice against the window glass. <br />When will monotony give us relief? <br /> <br />The blue line of the sill is set in stone. <br />The artificiality of cold <br />Rims hills with the precision of its gold. <br />Touch seems to help the glory hold its own. <br /> <br />The wind is startling to stiff twilight, <br />The disembodied tree limbs scrape and sigh, <br />Against a vast infinitude of sky. <br />Hands tighten on the sheer edge of the night.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whisper-killed/
