Mist: Inspired by Billie Holiday

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

               "If you have to ask what jazz is, you'll never know." 

                                                             — Louis Armstrong

This long, low moan

                     swelling in my throat

                rumbles like rough silk sliding across my landscape;

a tempest awaits - 

         finds only an empty horizon covered in mist 

                     where once, gardenias bloomed

           without restraint

Tainted

          by the memory of your touch,

                a graceless state of anguish

      since you've gone,

I recall a remnant of music

                                    would move us

                  in slow synchronicity

Shadows soothe my eyes

              as they linger on an empty doorway,

                         where your step could once be heard - 

now, not a word is spoken

           and silence reigns

                    as a gathering of sorrow 

                 sweeps edges of my heart along

       currents of this quiet river 

             where darkness dwells

    too deep for dread

                       to ever find my arms again