Your hands smell of wood shavings, sun's last grace.
That tawny essence fills all empty space.
I scarcely hear you talk of southbound birds.
Time has gone far beyond the mood of words.
The magic of the moment turns the landscape round.
That carousel defies all music to be found.
Only the wicked shadows carry us away
Into the insignificance of yesterday.
For we are common as the fallen leaves.
Who stops for them, or for such treasure grieves?
Frail bones enclose a memory that burns.
Smoke brings it back when bittersweet returns.
Friend. I shall love forever what is flawed,
The pattern of a hunter's face outlawed.
Thoughts trace him in the frost upon the glass.
Leaves whisper, hello, hello to the waiting grass.
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sun-s-last-grace/
