The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
— for Richard Kurtz, aka kaibab
There is an ecstatic weaving
understood by those who stitch songs of their souls
onto dry parchment, suddenly bewildered
by the slow unfolding of evening's breath.
The warmth of autumn stirs, wanes
upon the hearth, moves us beyond reckoning.
We whisper invention,
look to undiscovered continents within ourselves,
forgetting to carry a compass, yet not requiring its guidance,
sensing the direction of true north.
His mountain lies in sweet repose, blanketed by fierce beauty,
a simple stroke of brilliance he acknowledges
each morning with glistening eyes.
Leaves fall, a gentle glissade. He gathers a stem, a stone,
a blade of burnished grass and pockets their courage.
He curls his fingers in a sigh, knowing evolution is inevitable
and the wind remains untamed.
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