Thursday, June 6, 2013

View from Salt Valley

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

She sleeps gently now -
she who could not find remnants of slumber anywhere,
no matter how hard she tried, no matter how deep
her exhaustion and despair became.

He photographs her form in softened light, quietly,
so he won't disturb the dream that took so long to arrive.

They were both on the precipice before their crevasses joined,
leaning into a fierce breeze, daring it to push them one step further.
They'd be damned if they would jump into the abyss,
stubborn until the last moments before darkness
would enshroud their voices, their echoes fading into dust. 

Still, they listened to the shrieking wind as it carried a whisper aloft
from the plains below. Suddenly, as they keyed each other's names
into the ether, they heard music drifting
instead of the usual baroque of sorrow.  

Would there be a final dance before mourning?

He drove for hours through a thickening fog to find her.
She waited impatiently for impertinent visions to come.

Weaving their fingers together against the night,
they unveiled what lay silent in shadows between them.

They dared the light to reveal those secrets
they had sought for so long,
inevitably waning their trust.

In subtle shades of blue and gold,
they wove new tapestries from loosened threads,
swirling hips and truth within the same breath, shared.