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Sandra Fowler

Queen Of The Meadow

I think the leaves have chosen, my brave friend.
They patch the old roof with their berry blue.
I taste our epitaph in chimney smoke.
Queen of the meadow, where has August gone?

Queen Of The Meadow is a wildflower that comes and goes with August.

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The Stanzas Of My Mind

When stars fell cold
Like chunks of ice out of a fatal sky,
We memorized the hoar frost on gray roofs
And slanted thoughts to fit time's westward curve.

Air smelled of snow,
That holocaust that killed all whispers white.
I felt the poem that you never said.
Its candle lit the stanzas of my mind.

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Evening Flight

The lemon lady fingers of the sun
Lay ribbons of pale mercy on the cold.
Silk birds like kites lift dreams as high as smoke.
The music of the moment lives on hope.

Gray roofs are steeping thickly to the west.
Snow flakes like ghosts fall softly through the mind.
I feel the shelter of your shadow hand
Stroking my trembling wings for evening flight.

Previously published: Paris/Atlantic, France

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Gray Music

You wrote your Yiddish signature in rain.
I could not match it in a thousand years.
Old words are classic to my memory.
Because of you, my feet have wings this day.

Gray music paints a picture of rare worth,
A Slavic image of an April mood,
Breaching the barrier of your last breath,
I should not wonder, Friend, you said it would.

'For a poet who was born in April and died in April'.

Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler

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An Elegy In Frost

Cold sunshine writes our elegy in frost,
Author of light a million snowflakes lost,
All gone forever into swirling air,
A dance of death that is no longer there.

Pure poetry becomes a stanza said,
Classical white a message left unread,
While we stand longing for a winter past,
Hurt by a mood that was too fey to last.

West is a shadow wrapped around frail bones,
Your hand in mine for eloquence atones.
Touch is a brevity that needs no sound
To turn the weather of the world around.

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Appalachian Gray

I think the dusk has slipped beyond all words.
You speak spring with an accent never heard.
A poem on an Appalachian pane
Is bringing April back via the rain.

Pale trillium on the hill above the creek
Is delicate beyond the will to speak.
A gray coat of old feelings wraps my frame.
The landscape flickers like a candleflame.

Friend, frozen tears of trees mirror the sky
Within the confines of their inner cry.
The light fades us into its elegy.
Music is pictured though no sound need be.

2007, Copyright Sandra Fowler

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January Mist

Sometimes at night I hear small birds lament.
Dark notes that seem to second moon's descent.
Cold is the color of a deep regret,
An etude perfected by winterset.

The world was music and it turned us round.
Stirred by the subtle atmospheric sound,
You gently sketched a snowflake on my face
Which shall be mine till light has left this place.

Such solace has the power to outlast time,
To lock a small bird's elegy in rhyme.
Somewhere beyond the January mist,
The magic of our landscape still exists.

Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler

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Autumn Friends

If one could bridge the distance with a word,
A journey would become a pilgrimage.
Elegant letters slant across the page.
My leaf has found a home upon your coat.

My kind critic, I think it is our fate
To meet in stanzas of my poetry.
Simile and metaphor must be our bond
Until autumn blows one of us away.

Our rare rapport is irreplacable.
Old moods glimmer on sills like fallen stars.
My little leaf says thank you every day.
It comforts me to know it traveled safe.

'With my compliments to Mukund Dave for
all his eloquent reviews'

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Beyond Eden

Green leaves tap at my window like lost souls.
I trace their signatures upon the glass.
Dawn is only a few quatrains away.
I memorize the fragrance of spring rain.

It takes me back beyond Eden, my friends
Where Adam brushed the first tear from Eve's eye.
Stripped of their innocence, how could they know?
The last grief would be soothed by God himself.

Somewhere deep in the hills, a lyric bird
Sings of the poignancy of humanness.
The ever freshness of that ancient sound
Brings back the sun that shone aeons ago.

Sandra Fowler, copyright,2010

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Almost Home

Remembering a Valentine sent to me by a poet from India,1989
You meet the moment with your solace thought.
Your fingers sketch a gray house far away.
Its window lights are warming cool resolve.
I think and know that we are almost home.

They tell me that a red bird has no soul
And yet I choose it for my metaphor.
Its spirit skims above half-frozen roads.
One hand is clapping for the death

With beautiful precision how your words
Eliminate each snowflake from my mind.
Yes, I accept your red bird valentine
Praising the strength that thought it over seas.

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