Sometimes at night I hear small birds lament. <br />Dark notes that seem to second moon's descent. <br />Cold is the color of a deep regret, <br />An etude perfected by winterset. <br /> <br />The world was music and it turned us round. <br />Stirred by the subtle atmospheric sound, <br />You gently sketched a snowflake on my face <br />Which shall be mine till light has left this place. <br /> <br />Such solace has the power to outlast time, <br />To lock a small bird's elegy in rhyme. <br />Somewhere beyond the January mist, <br />The magic of our landscape still exists. <br /> <br />Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/january-mist/
