The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Her hands were nothing glamorous,
as far as she was concerned -
merely tools meant for capturing
fragrant petals before they fell,
necessary for gathering food
(one needs sustenance, after all),
deft at mending torn silk with such empathy,
its wounds could not be seen.
In the beginning, she refused his fervent pursuit,
having no penchant for unwanted attentions.
Her palette was full and tremulous.
Still, there was something about crisp vision
in a man so intrigued by her scent,
wound within her long tendrils -
her strands trailed with rapture
beyond nightfall's diminishing reach.
From the east,
he whispered her name again in his dreams.
From the west,
she ﬁnally answered, drenched in jasmine.
Their hands splayed wild breadths
of each other's vast canvases,
swelling into history's torrid embrace -
even now, they swim rebelliously
beneath delicate tides like these,
stirred slowly by moon's silvery glow,
pulsating rhythms echoing their remembered skin.