Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Dead Reckoning




The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton





While reclining in a morass of thorns,
one remembers the fragile fragrance of roses,
their subtle gestures
delightful under a waning sun.

How frivolous we are with mere moments,
assured there will be more.
How arrogant we become
with our presumptions.

The scent of the grave cautiously surrounds us
even as we splash in our pricey perfumes.

The moon has no tolerance
for such hazardous waste -
she has tides to move, after all.

How dare we cling to her sultry glow,
moaning our slow songs of surrender?