The air smells bitterly of dying things. <br />Wind blows gray trees into a tragic blur, <br />I have no name for any leaf that falls. <br />I only know the colors cry in rain. <br /> <br />The dusk breaks in blue fragments at my feet. <br />Birds splatter skypanes with india ink. <br />Smoke from the chimney forms your Slavic face, <br />Your touch completes the fenceposts of my mind. <br /> <br />Previously published, Bitterroot<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-colors-cry-in-rain/
