Repetitions

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I.

The shore defined the reach of the current's ebb and flow.

We stood on the edge of yesterday and tomorrow, lost in the moment 

as our eyes discovered two souls searching for each other.

Fragile in our knowing,

we leaned into an embrace that remains, even now.

Suddenly, we fell upon the sand,

laughing at time, stunned by our mutual surrender of balance.

You sighed gently, your hands tangling in my hair

as you showed me paths built of starlight.

The waves echoed the rhythm of our hearts

as we gentled the night with a kiss.

II.

I linger softly between each line,

torn between anguish and ecstasy.

I spill my soul's ink upon this lucid parchment

with a passion that will not be silenced or denied.

Within my tempestuous thoughts, moonlight tarries,

whispering star-songs into my dreaming eyes.

Why must survival be so harried and cruel,

when the beauty of life is so sublime?

I pause for a bitter moment to drink my fill of sweetness

as though perilously parched 

before I scatter myself across a multitude of horizons,

longing for nightfall in sanctuary's keep.

III.

Among the elders, I search for the perfect tree,

a solid branch to hang my hopes upon

without concern for storms' splintering wrath.

I seek bountiful boughs to shade me,

plentiful leaves to sing their autumnal songs.

Along the landscape I have slowly wandered,

spending long years lost within this quest.

Breezes sigh softly through bared branches,

subtle movements against the night sky

between gently dancing leaves.

Shadows murmur across the horizon, hiding intentions of light,

burrowing beauty beneath chiaroscuro echoes,

unveiling dualities.

We are silent within this radiant realm

as passion's purity unfolds inside our hallowed hearts,

origami birds suddenly come undone.

IV.

Time carves its solemn memories

into stone softened by sorrow.

Joy etches its presence upon these rough-edged pillars,

insisting on its rightful place within the sacred cycles

of weeping water and borrowed sun.

The Anasazi came and left without leaving any clues

beyond their abstract disappearance;

only the silent cliffs remain as witness

to mark their existence among us.

We are all only fragments of dust, 

gathered into wild bouquets,

until the wind returns.