The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Days turn slowly into nights
and I am certain of less with each moment -
some call this "wisdom".
All I know is this:
my edges fade more with each movement
and pages curl with disuse;
my form will be forgotten -
a wisp of something
that once stood tall among bent reeds,
that once swayed in ink, no matter how fierce the wind.