The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Entangled by the feast, we forget we are spirits
meant for better things than separation.
I imagine your dark eyes
as they crease in silent, restrained laughter -
we become warriors against a clear blue sky,
standing undivided by circumstance; we seek each other
with ferocity, a subtle edge of guilt frayed by doubt.
The weary sun has settled into the landscape's embrace;
it has been parched for centuries, it seems.
The moon weeps effervescent tears in streams of pale light -
shrouded by fog - her ache is palpable.
We are ferocious in the pursuit of this folly,
purchasing mere moments by the handful,
spilling our dreams upon the page.
I stutter with surprise when the sun rises
without my bed accepting the weight of weary bones
as I bend over this daunting desk
to listen intently for truth's most tender tremblings.
Hollowed by lonely wrath,
your brow arches as it furrows in thought,
your voice as smooth as the finest sapphire silk,
as rough as raw gray granite
when you are moved to passions
no tide can fully savor or discern.
Yet, here we meet and melt,
melding stained glass that swirls in shadows;
distant shores surge between our songs -
still, the wind carries wild whispers aloft.
I am haunted by the absence of your touch,
bereft of beauty.
I am worn to bare bones,
traveling on the casual dust of dismay.
I whisper your name into borrowed slumber;
as a new leaf turns,
a chrysalis glistens beneath morning dew.
Your voice is the color of dusky sky
anticipating a canvas of sultry stars ascending,
the smoky glow caresses our eyes with possibility.
I shudder only once, casting off hungry shadows,
folding sorrow into a forgotten drawer
as your hands flow through my hair like subtle currents of the sea.