Our eyes weave paisley patterns of frail leaves.
by Sandra Fowler
The sun pours thickly over all that grieves.
There is an ancient angel in the hills
Blowing a song so beautiful it chills.
Heaven and earth are at our fingertips.
Time books passage on coffee colored ships
Of clouds that heap the atmosphere so high
The image creates mountains of good-bye.
Great words alone can never set the pace
That turns the mood so heavily through space.
We have no final answer for this day
Except Perhaps, God wanted it that way.
Previously published; In The Lampost