The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Quietly, I enter your temple -
you have become my new religion,
provoking prayer, inviting illumination.
Burled branches bend from your sway,
a plea for wingéd things to soar.
Buds ripen beneath your gaze
as your mouth offers tender evolutions.
We are smooth shards of glass, fitted neatly,
our edges melding,
reflecting translucent moments -
dusk is forgotten now.
The murmuring wind beneath your hands
lifts my skirt slightly
with the subtle promise of fledglings.
Forests may fall in silence;
still, we rise from folds of their ash,
shuddering with fruition.