I was picking flowers and you were praising smoke.
The echoes of that last time linger on.
Birds pieced from the gray quilt of the dusk
Sang mighty wholeness that is ever lost.
I held your face like summer in my hands.
The warmth was various, a rare suncut.
Wind played your tune through simple blades of grass.
You never heard it, but I hear it still.
Muse India
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1-echoes/
