Poem By Sandra Fowler
Friend, let us touch each other with warm words.
Deep in the thicket, hear the evening birds
Talk of old sunsets quite content to be,
No more than what the naked eye can see.
I think our letters fight their way through air,
Over patched roofs that seem to gladly bear,
That little light that winter has to give.
However sparingly, the feelings live,
To travel safely through prevailing space,
Making their statement with a kind of grace,
That interlocks the music of landscape,
Within the magic of its own escape.