SF (February,4,1937 / W. Columbia, WV, USA)

A Wisp Of Smoke

The moon falls March white on old sycamores,
As good-bye as the glitter of a tear.
Warmth is a word too fragile to be said,
Love fey blue as a wisp of winter smoke.

The glamor is almost intangible,
Vision a whisper of its former self.
You clasp my hand to still the fleeting mood.
I promise you I will not close my eyes.

Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 25 votes ) 27

Comments (27)

No two-ways about it - this is genius. N
wonderful imagery......richly poetic words!
wow, this poem is amazing i really like it.
a beautifull creation. lovely style
S, you are a poetic genius. I don't know why, but this brings tears to my eyes. Really so. And in the 'I don't know why' lies your genius, I guess. t x
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