Wednesday, June 19, 2013

These Fragile Harvests

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Lay me down upon moss-strewn banks of a wild river's crossing 
as embers adrift in your eyes wait to be stirred;
smoke rises from fingertips as we gentle these moments,
so softly near.

You bury your hands in my hair,
burrow into my arms with trust in this tempest we feel
surging within the quiet space between our souls.

With darkened hush,
you moan fragrances upon my skin -
slowly lingering songs, murmured with thickened language,
hidden in the honey of your sighs as if forbidden
to taste, to touch, to dream this tender flesh.

Hurry your scent into this bouquet of abundant fields
and gather these fragile harvests 
as we become conflagrations of disguise.