The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Moonlight moans across tragic flesh
as I hold this still-warm cup,
drained of memory.
I do not dare discern the meanings
within these tattered leaves that remain.
Bent fingers hold ancient pages loosely
as I read of shadowed dreams
unshuttered by fierce wind.
There are no words for this wild woe
unsheltering me from your gaze.