Killing Frost

I think the leaves down on my roof of tin.
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

by Sandra Fowler

Comments (15)

Hello, Sandra, Only similar optimism it is possible will make murder of a sincere frost.... 10.... Best wishes, Tsira
You mix your ingredients (color, sound and texture) with the finesse of a cordon bleu chef. You stir them with a compassionate spoon, bake them for just the right amount of time, then present them with an artist's eye. Your poetry traces similar themes, and yet each poem is startlingly unique - like this one. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Sandra, your word usage is absolutely intoxicating. This is a remarkable poem, with a very striking title, 'Killing Fost'. I truly enjoyed the read and looking forward to more and more. Melvina
Sandra, Your work always expands for me the borders of my very limited understanding of so many things, most especially the power - the incredible power - of love. Bill Grace
yes it is that old frost is what does it. fall is beautiful with all those colors, then comes frost and kills it. a very well put together piece of wonderful poetry.
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