Let rain forever make gray music, Friend.
Such sadness makes a sweet sound on the glass.
I wonder if that white owl on the hill
Knows lonesome well enough to sing it down.
We cannot call back distant August days
When goldenrod had power to warm the soul.
And yet night vision is a wondrous thing.
It measures drops of darkness on old roofs.
Previously Published, 'Poetry Depth Quarterly'.
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-vision-7/
