Hands dream to trace the sculptures of old trees <br />That stand like dark wainscoting to the light. <br />Thickets of wordless poems capture thoughts, <br />Paint lowering moods upon gray window glass. <br /> <br />You spoke Autumn in seven languages, <br />but only thought in Hebrew, so you said. <br />It pleases me immeasurably to know <br />My appalachian accent was approved. <br /> <br />Tonight my mind paints you a smoke picture, <br />Although frail moods are sometimes blown away. <br />It does not matter what a poem costs. <br />The pen and ink is worth the jourrney, Friend.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-smoke-picture/
