The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
My columns on a variety of subjects
there is a quiet house
enormous with history.
She watched the world expand
through her narrow window there,
perhaps never realizing how generous
she would become.
Her gifts remained largely unnoticed
in the business and busyness of people living their lives
as best they knew how, not understanding
she held the key to secret, unseen doors
where perception might grow as large
as the wisteria she tended with merciful hands.
First in black, then white,
she strolled softly between burgeoning branches,
sifting fruit and petals alike with pale fingers
holding her lace shawl on her shoulders bent with accumulation.
Often, she would soothe her hounds
as darkness descended, lost in mysterious reveries
none could explain.
Under candle’s glow, she would read the classics,
and writing far beyond her breadth,
outmaster them all with a redolent stroke of her pen.
She could not have known
the ancients would shudder and thrill the starlight,
thoughtfully gazing through her portal
as time was severed from its leash
and night grew dim.