My friend, I think the sunset knows our names. <br />Old leaves are whispering them to windowpanes. <br />A Jew's harp wind plays the elusive dusk. <br />Blueness comes in like a compelling tide. <br /> <br />The August fingers of the western light <br />Is writing us into its history book. <br />You promise me that good-bye will be gold <br />And glorious as our mortality. <br /> <br />Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mortality-13/
