The air smells bitterly of dying things.
Wind blows gray trees into a tragic blur,
I have no name for any leaf that falls.
I only know the colors cry in rain.

The dusk breaks in blue fragments at my feet.
Birds splatter skypanes with india ink.
Smoke from the chimney forms your Slavic face,
Your touch completes the fenceposts of my mind.

Previously published, Bitterroot

Sandra Fowler

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-colors-cry-in-rain/