My Love's Hands

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

— Written in reply to Danny Beatty's poem for me, "The Fingers Of My Love Are Rivers"

The breadth of my love's hands are rugged banks I flow between,

a sweet prevention of waters' rising too high, too fast to fathom,

destroying all in its furious path -

instead, I drift lazily, a summer's memory, golden and ecstatic,

a child once more of the forest where I dwell in peaceful reverie.

The birds orchestrate their performances

as the leaves' ballet begins and I weep with the wonder of it all;

he catches my tears and wisteria forms, a curl and swirl of lavender,

reflecting the mighty oceans that surge within his eyes. 

His umber moan, his wild pony mane take flight beneath my gaze;

a swift burning urge to lift into the wind 

and flee the bonds of earthen gestures, of surly skies 

that would have us cast down among forgotten stars - 

we shall not descend except to kiss 

the butterfly wings as they unfurl from their chrysalis, 

slightly confused and beautiful with their nascent unknowing.

His arms gather me.

His voice holds me, bestilled and burrowing into his warmth.

His fingers hold vast universes to enchant me, and do.

His storms are sudden - they soak me to the bone

and I seek shelter within the spaces between his clouds

and wait for his sun to return, glancing across the horizon

where wheat stalks wave underneath his boldness of breath, 

his ferocity of gracious harvesting.

He holds the seasons in his grasp, lightly, 

knowing precisely when to let them go,

watching them with quiet pride as they burst into bloom.

The breadth of my love's hands are rugged banks I flow between,

serene and glistening beneath tides of the moon.

We are angels among men, merely waiting 

for our ribs to spread their remembered wings,

to seek the sky with purpose and gratitude

for the hard-earned knowledge of sustaining soil.