Blue wind upon a distant windowpane,
I hear you whistle folk songs to the rain
In tune with leaves that have no place to go.
Last light becomes the only home they know.
My friend, I feel your hand upon my skin.
The essence of the mood is paper thin.
Against the awesome turning of the earth,
Warmth has about a cup of coffee's worth.
Previously published, 'Poetry Depth Quarterly'
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-light/
