Hands dream to trace the sculptures of old trees
That stand like dark wainscoting to the light.
Thickets of wordless poems capture thoughts,
Paint lowering moods upon gray window glass.
You spoke Autumn in seven languages,
but only thought in Hebrew, so you said.
It pleases me immeasurably to know
My appalachian accent was approved.
Tonight my mind paints you a smoke picture,
Although frail moods are sometimes blown away.
It does not matter what a poem costs.
The pen and ink is worth the jourrney, Friend.
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-smoke-picture/
