Sunday, February 17, 2013

Chiaroscuro


The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton





Hurry, he says - 
the dawn is reducing night
to mere shadow.

I hasten to the window
as clouds swirl haphazardly in a pale sky.

The horizon glistens with promise.

Trees undulate in wind’s rhythms,
imitating fire.

Hurry, he says -
this day will not be still.