The moon falls March white on old sycamores, <br />As good-bye as the glitter of a tear. <br />Warmth is a word too fragile to be said, <br />Love fey blue as a wisp of winter smoke. <br /> <br />The glamor is almost intangible, <br />Vision a whisper of its former self. <br />You clasp my hand to still the fleeting mood. <br />I promise you I will not close my eyes. <br /> <br />Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wisp-of-smoke/
