My friend, I think the sunset knows our names.
Old leaves are whispering them to windowpanes.
A Jew's harp wind plays the elusive dusk.
Blueness comes in like a compelling tide.
The August fingers of the western light
Is writing us into its history book.
You promise me that good-bye will be gold
And glorious as our mortality.
Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mortality-13/
