Sandra Fowler - Old News

Time over Tuesday, August almost gone,
So little left of summer to dream on.
I write a poem on the windowglass.
Quatrains waver like shadows in the grass.

One feels as if all life is lost in form.
Only sun's metaphor can keep us warm.
A lone, nostalgic whistle in the hills,
Tells me our train has come, the moment chills.

You turn my collar up against the sound.
Gray smoke configures good-bye on the ground.
The picture is too beautiful to lose
Your eyes tell me that Tuesday is old news.

Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler

Sandra Fowler

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-news-2/