Time over Tuesday, August almost gone, <br />So little left of summer to dream on. <br />I write a poem on the windowglass. <br />Quatrains waver like shadows in the grass. <br /> <br />One feels as if all life is lost in form. <br />Only sun's metaphor can keep us warm. <br />A lone, nostalgic whistle in the hills, <br />Tells me our train has come, the moment chills. <br /> <br />You turn my collar up against the sound. <br />Gray smoke configures good-bye on the ground. <br />The picture is too beautiful to lose <br />Your eyes tell me that Tuesday is old news. <br /> <br />Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-news-2/
