Thursday, February 14, 2013

poem for Danny

                                                              — "Stars", 1926 by Maxfield Parrish

                  The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

No mere star field could contain the lush thickness of your whirr,
no galaxial hum dense enough to retain or restrain 
this fine fluency of your flute as it whispers fair strings of light 
through my hair in mornings bright with vitality and sustenance

You are more than your body shall ever confess,
more than your mind can begin to fathom
on this sealess journey of waves tossing 
through mathless sums of all things bold and glorious

If trees could speak your language, 
their whispers would hush,
their boughs knelt in wonder

rain ceases to fall from your eyes 
as clouds retreat into slow strokes of umber
of suns waning on the horizon
as moons rise up into song

If no one ever spoke again, 
never cast a glance into the far, winded days,
your silence would be enough

Go forth, allow your fingers' delicate touch
to stroke such elegant ink upon the page, 
to fly within my teasing tresses
and I shall dance

Who am I, that you should love me so?
Who are you, that I should love you 
with exuberant laughter and tears, without any hesitation, 
freed from shame or harm, ascended beyond mortal fears?

We are nearing a third circling of solar cycles,
unburned by this devotion, devoid of regret.

Poetry has not tamed us, nor has survival of the fittest;
we have not altered or neglected our inner children
for the sake of anonymous adulthood, 
for the culling of spice or grain inside autumn's nascent grip

Violins sing into and throughout our quietudes,
their strings vibrating low echos as cellos charm,
then meld in harmonies fragrant and wise, 
their dulcet tones fiery and rich with substance.

We are jazz unraveled, 
a dialogue, a tapestry of bones and flesh,
their secrets untold, untorn by dawn or dusk
woven from different sounds, similar notes;

newborn stars reverberate 
in the distance far above,

knowing what has become of us, 
what we will become - 

timeless and merciful with tenderness

Author notes:

Written in reply to "I Am Not Made Of Stars ... a valentine's day poem for Wanda" by Danny Beatty