Sandra Fowler

W. Columbia, WV, USA

Sandra Fowler was born in West Columbia , WV where she still resides. Her parents are Okey D. Fowler and Jean Roach Fowler. Poetry first came to her in The Salem Church. Since then her work has appeared in nine different countries and she has had three books of poetry published in Israel, The United States, and India. Sandra enjoys church work, classical music, old movies and her dog named Beau. She likes to talk shop with letter friends in distant places. Sandra says "I love to create poetry from life as I see it from my window on the world."

Weatherward

Who knows to what country those wings are bound?
Great shadows belled by wind cover the ground.
The dissonance jars tin roofs with its sound.

Wild geese weatherward to that shining place,
Where clouds loom like tall turrets against space.
The wonder of it lights the lonely face.

One wonders why eatth bones cannot take flight.
While drinking the momentum of the night.
Is glitter too distant for the finite?

A traveler feather on the windowsill
Leaves hands a little souvenir to chill,
But autumn burns the mouth like anise still.

I Hold Our Snowstorm

I hold our snowstorm in a bright clear globe.
The urgency of music turns a world
That dances with its own fatality,
White falls like constant glitter beyond sight.

Come, live with me inside the picture glass.
The memory of our moment will not break.
As long as I can turn it in my hands,
This winter will be giving us always.

Faint Patch

I memorize the light's faint patch on snow.
Beautiful words hurt more than any blow.
The comfort of your old coat makes me said.
It is the only one you ever had.

How well I know those pockets lined with prayers.
You sang them when you carried me upstairs.
It was in those last winters that I knew,
The cold could never come because of you.

They say you climbed a steep hill for Him, sir.
Darkness covers the west without a stir.
But I am lifted upwards by the sight,
Of old brass buttons that held on to light.

Filigree

Frail April snow, the blue smoke of old moods,
And filigree of nailprints on the mind,
A shadow paints the windowpane of dreams,
That young God-Man who Himself for spring.