Deft fingers sketch the ever falling sun,
Paint good-bye on the lens of imagery.
West fades across a field of goldenrod.
Amber is warm elegiac to the touch.
Shadows become a landscapes final gift.
You tell me so with your eloquent eyes.
One need not speak to be articulate.
I hear what you could never say aloud.
Above our heads, sky is autumn enhanced.
I think it is a masterpiece in gray.
You wrap your arms around me like a coat.
And so we stand immersed in light's ebb tide.
Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/deft-fingers/
