The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
absented from bees' solo thrum and birds so blue,
the lack of your hand is unwanted shade
under a bare tree's icy tendrils in winter;
I cannot bloom thus. Piercing the night
is the sound of cold metal as the engine wails,
needing warmth and fuel.
...I mean unfathomable is such darkness
when your feet are padding somewhere other than here.
There is no rhythm,
only the mercilessly sluggard ticking of a trembling clock.
When you are gone, there is no whirr.