A Touch Of Gold
Birds are in conversation with the dark.
They sing their elegies from power lines.
You clasp my hand to hold the music still.
Such stanzas, Friend, must not be winter lost.
Clouds picture tall gray houses in the sky,
Their windows incandescent with autumn.
You smile and say, 'It might be possible
To light our way home via red gold panes.'
With gentle skill your imagery creates,
A rare landscape for westbound travelers.
Connect me to your version of sun fall.
No one translates December quite like you.
Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler
Published in, 'The Taj Mahal Review'