There is a God of red leaves and of dying.
He traced dark landscapes on my window pane.
Spare and beautiful the sound of crying
Libations of black coffee, drops of rain.
Old trees clasp limbs, sing poetry together.
I wrap myself in shadows to keep warm.
Clinging to fantastic shapes of weather,
Comforted, still, by lullabies of form.
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-is-a-god/
