Adrift

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

With silvery fingers,

I now trail my hands in an ebbing tide -

I became lost in a fervent flow as you etched your song

upon my soul; quiet music soothed tender surges of sorrow.

Immersed in memories of your magic,

I felt tensions disappear as furrowed brows eased

into smooth lines of shivered contentment.

Your mouth wandered slowly along my jawline,

a journey of discovery and delight,

searching for rhythm in the hollow of my throat,

leaving delicate lilies behind in your wake -

you murmured depths of dreams adrift in desire

and we paused to savor this sweetness we'd found.

With golden whispers of a setting sun echoing,

you lifted shadows from the folds of my thoughts,

illuminated night with sultry sounds of seasons subdued

as crickets serenaded infinite moments of moonlight,

ascending beyond the remembered realms of dusk.

This Quiet Symphony

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Even now, after so many years of being

gathered within this flesh,

I am provoked into astonishment

when my throat releases a sudden song.

Head tilted, eyes look askance

at the tentative warbling sounds,

a bird confounded in flight

at the unwary discovery of wings.

Whose music is this? 

I ask with a casual glance behind me,

uncertain of the origin. From where does it come

and where is it going?

Tomorrow will never arrive,

for it is out of anyone’s reach

as the rain falls slowly from an unrelenting sky - 

I am subdued within the unframed edges

of this quiet symphony.

The Wisdom of Wind

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Pillaged by nightfall, 

ashes drift on sorrow's surrender, 

covering the soil with soot.

History is far too repetitive for my liking,

far too tedious a task to endure.

I yearn to lean forward into the coming years with grace,

alacrity I fear I no longer possess.

I cannot hear the breath of wind through devastated branches -

radiant roots are splayed, torn from home.

Once more, the sea swells in my heart, caressing the shoreline;

currents of chaos will not seem to cease

in their attempts to shred memories, 

as though they are invincible.

Leaves stir, colors swirling in the depths of shadows
filtered by your bountiful branches that arch to embrace me

as I stroll, silent in my contemplation of this altered landscape.

This rising, ageless sun has revealed secrets
which darkness tried to keep away from my searching eyes -

tears fall freely now, pooling into currents
as I drift toward your love and its silvery, sacred tides.

I follow the path near the river,
aching for the source of movement -

I find you everywhere I look;
inside and out, at dusk and at dawn.

You whisper beauty into my waning heart,

calming tempests that rage slowly within,

releasing song.

The Strength of a Woman

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

My strength dwells in the power and memory 

of my fragility; I am more than nuance, 

more than mere substance, of secrets unveiled. 

My eyes shall lift you up in silence, 

provide solace where, once, 

there were only remnants of peace to savor. 

You shall see your own reflection 

when you glance at me, a whisper 

ascending into sudden song. 

The Purity of Physics

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

The circumference of a ferocious thing

matters as much as its heft, if not more so —

if it obscures your tentative view of the horizon,

take a step forward, backward or sideways,

then run as if your life depended upon it,

for it very well may be the case.

Indecision cannot save you. 

Any lack of movement might seal your fate. 

Do not be fooled into thinking

nothing is significant, except for time, for time

is the least of your concerns.

Beneath your feet, seedlings ripple within tides of soil,

even if you remain unaware of the inevitable flow.

When you are gone and your footsteps have receded into dust,

petals will flourish where once you were —

their fragrance may bear your memory beyond the moment.

Innocuous as it may seem, miracles swirl around you,

teasing your senses into submission — 

yet, when you finally turn to look in their direction, 

everything is suddenly motionless and appears unchanged —

but you are not. An indeterminate shift has taken place

in spite of your efforts to mold each instant 

as you would have it be — everything has its own destiny,

as do you. 

Deny truth all you like;

it cannot be altered by your arrogance or will.

Hear the music beneath the slow, steady hum —

there are notes rising and falling every second.

Learn to dance before your feet forget

what they were meant to do —

propel you onward.

If Not For Grace

                                               Texaco Station on Route 66 by Andreas Feininger

If not for Grace and her tender mercies,

this tall drink of water might have evaporated

inside deserted borders of my own making, 

might have shuddered straight through darkness, 

never to return to light ... stranger things 

have happened - repeatedly.

Eloquence notwithstanding,

she saved me, time and again,

from the obscure, the obscene, the obtuse,

from my very self, 

bringing me back into levels of bright boldness, 

startling me with her gentle hand, 

outstretched with kindness.

My tragic hips jutted into sharp corners,

in too big of a hurry to slow down, while captured 

by curves of a resonant Rubenesque woman 

floating barely beneath transparent flesh of a thin shadow.

Grace left before I arrived; she was my father's first love

who crept under sweet soil, never to be seen again. 

There were no photographs left behind,

no flat memories of sepia to unfold into larger dimensions.

I did not hear her voice or feel her touch.

Tornadoes wore my name as a mantel, a shawl, a cloak,

hidden by gray clouds, murmuring the deceit of rain.

Trains did not leave the abandoned station. 

Their skeletons grew heavy with rust,

no destination in mind. Just there,

like a proverbial bad penny.

Language was music to my naïve bones,

a refusal to break completely from the past

while pursuing future tithings, while breathing

the clarity of a moment, adagio.

Words gathered me closely, 

their fragrance too seductive

to resist.

I became a wild bouquet of prairie flowers,

never meant to stay for long, yet 

perhaps long enough to leave a trace behind

of a path not seen by weary travelers -

they stayed on smoother concrete of a newer highway,

not understanding those soothing sounds

of divided sections of an ancient road,

caught under fast-moving wheels,

unaware of secrets found lurking 

at the Last Chance Texaco.

5 Degrees at 6 am

                                                                        "Stars", 1926 by Maxfield Parrish

I watch from above

as he walks into the maw

of howling cold darkness

I am wearing thick socks

while he wears triple layers

I wonder if the thought of me 

waiting here alone 

will keep him warm enough

to bring him home, swiftly and safe

the wind is moaning its agony

into our bones, now separated 

by distance and duty,

by commerce and consumerism

the blankets are empty 

of everything but his scent

I hug them tightly around me,

lean against his pillow, yawning, 

burrow deep into this cavern

he is out there somewhere,

battling good and evil

with his leather gloves

with me shivering in his back pocket,

a thought as small as snowflakes,

a love as large as the Grand Canyon,

so big it can be seen from space

with all its stars

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton