Walking On

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Most days,
I tread softly on the porcelain shards
of shattered expectations,

cringing at the crunch
of shell against concrete.

The yolk has long since dried
into an unsightly stain,
yellow against gray;

tepid, no longer lucid -

no meringue to savor
against the sorrow.

Only pallid parchment
will save me from the bitterness
that comes from infinite yearning;

I pour my passion
from an unending well of deep, dark ink,

smearing the pages with an occasional tear
that betrays what I believe in,

what I would willingly barter
for a single act of silence that soothes.