The moon is lemon light, November cold. <br />The wind is blowing colors all apart. <br />Old leaves are writing their last signature <br />Upon the dimming windows of the world. <br /> <br />Time is a gray bird grazing fingertips. <br />It flies so far the mind cannot forge chains. <br />One feather falls like solace on bare hands, <br />An autumn gesture, yet how comforting! <br /> <br />A scent of snow is fragrant on the air. <br />Deep hollows will be filled with small white stars. <br />The very thought of that is beautiful, <br />A lunar landscape fit for fairy tales. <br /> <br />Our night is falling in the window glass, <br />Subtle as shadows, all its secrets kept. <br />You paint me quatrains for a souvenir, <br />Verses become my early Christmas gift. <br /> <br />2008, Sandra Fowler<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-scent-of-snow/
