Light has exposed the landscape to its form. <br />Mood is rebuked of all its artifice. <br />Wind moves like winter through the naked trees. <br />I ask you for a leaf, but there is none. <br /> <br />Instead, you offer me a weather coat, <br />Gray as warm words reduced to whispering. <br />You tell me that November loves old bones. <br />Your frost accent is quite believable. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />You paint a picture of our private sky. <br />The light falls faint upon my closing eyes. <br />Held close within a margin of rare words, <br />Stillness sings like a fragile, yellow bird. <br /> <br />Against the glass old memories ebb and flow. <br />A touch of verse becomes a touch of snow. <br />Our tiny world is slipping into space. <br />Only your precious hands hold it in place. <br /> <br />Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-touch-of-verse/
