The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Hands swiftly gather memories,
clustered moments forming into a gentle harvest,
bouquets of sounds and textures ripe with dew -
lush, fragile fragrances become entrenched in subliminal
offerings, incense permeating the soil of our flesh
as we rise, wisps of smoke caught inside a cautious breeze.
Our eyes ferment these fruits we have plucked from bending boughs,
not unaware of the sparse or plentiful evolutions of growth
encouraged by fluent light's awakened tendrils, subdued
within the dusky hues of delicacy bursting into our quieted mouths.
Silence is a shroud, engulfing all sorrows beneath a bare, bitter tree,
refusing to flourish under a gifted sun, rejecting our journeys
to remain when and where we cannot.
Hips reverberate curves and angles, flowing and jutting
waterfalls in an uncharted jungle, describing paradise
to the mute with accentuated movements, graceful and profound
with bravery - defining sanctuary to the blind with jagged breaths
carving sculpture into a nascent landscape; we are taut with imagination,
glistening as sacred, undoused flames.
Lips quarrel and curl beneath each other's majestic pronouncements,
tilt and slide with cornucopias of laughter pouring forth across the lush,
hushed hills of our unfolding bodies, soothing our existence by flowers
and thunder. Our years evaporate into unkempt dust and we succumb,
nubile and forgiving - still, abundant with song.
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