I think the leaves down on my roof of tin.
by Sandra Fowler
I feel the failing brightness on my skin.
Autumn insects sing the shadows thin.
You came to me out of a killing frost,
How many wildflowers did your journey cost?
Your eyes are cold, gold with the sun you lost.
My fingers write the seasons on your face.
Leaves whisper songs no morning could replace.
The music plays inside as we embrace.
Glass mirrors a gray bowl of simplicity,
Your telling of the fog is poetry,
Words fill the emptiness with you and me.
Color is raining somewhere far away,
I close my heart to what the sad leaves say.
Good-bye would be too real for me today.
Would you catch me a color for belief?
The poem must be ours however brief.
We might not know the song of next year's leaf.
Previously published, Appalachian Heritage, Berea College