The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
When your last poem crashes
into the shores of my soul like a rogue wave,
I will incline myself and dive into its offerings,
knowing there are jewels awaiting those who strive to go
beneath the shallows and into deeper waters,
trusting the tides to carry them back home -
I will not fear the darkness or the light that stretches
above the slow currents as mist.
When my bare toes dig into the soil
and plant their roots in the edges of your well-tended garden,
understanding such seeds will take more than a moment
to rise into bloom, permeating the air with their singular fragrances,
to flourish, unmatched by any other flower's grace.
When Autumn comes in her inevitable way, her arms wide
and succulent with the comfort of an Indian Summer,
I will watch the wind curl its fist tighter with each passing day -
as the leaves chatter and spiral-dance, evoking your memory,
I'll whisper your name for each bright ember that reaches,
each wisp of smoke that lifts into the sky, seeking its own thunder.
When I miss you (and so I shall), I will softly sigh
and pause to remember that you are still here,
still vibrant, still a part of every molecule we breathe...
yet, when I hear a wooden flute's more dulcet tones,
a tear may form within my eye, unbidden -
I will not wipe it away, nor bow my head.