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.

poem for ccawley

Heaven can wait - and it will.

The red dirt of Oklahoma lies still beneath your skin,

as you remember a dense path woven of weeds and rose rocks - 

remnants of neglect carved sharp rivulets 

from your unblinking lashes.

You run east to west, seeking wisdom,

writing in your journal 

of all you have witnessed

within this broad spectrum of landscape.

There is much to be learned 

from dark canopies of sequoias

that linger in your wide-eyed gaze - 

douglas firs permeate 

your present state of consciousness -

waves of sound rise 

from torrential seas of Nashville,

the numbness of so many droning miles 

too numerous to count with your wind-drifted hands 

until much later, when you have a moment to reminisce.

You declare, with certainty, 

that you cannot write a love poem.

But there is a breathlessness 

that comes whenever I seek your pages,

a recognition that hearts will swell 

beyond their mortal boundaries

right there, between the tender thrumming 

of your untamed words.

poem for Elisa

your door opens to dawn;

soft light pours like translucent milk 

through lace curtains 

as jasmine murmurs in the foyer,

a gentle invitation to enter

your architecture is solid,

fluidity with angles and curves,

a swirl of both water and air,

a declaration of fire and earth

a reminiscence of ripe plums 

rests upon your bedside table,

still waiting to be savored

fingers spread and palms raised,

as though containing an invisible gift

gathered from the morning's tide

watching through your upstairs window,

the shore below reveals a mandala created within the mist, 

a horizon of pastel memories beyond our grasp

wind catches wings of a thousand paper cranes

as sky unfolds,

a new day shimmers with slender sighs,

whispers of long ago and far away

you bend toward a distant sound remembered,

your hair covering your eyes,

wet almonds glistening as they recall 

the promise of lilies floating lazily, 

their reflections pallid beneath a descending sun

one last poem for you

            — Inspired by "A Song of Despair" by Pablo Neruda

Nearly three decades have been lost to the wilderness;

why do visions come to me, carved and faded by time?

I remember candlelight in an upstairs room,

a deep silence resonant with the creation of stars.

You trembled as you leaned toward me, 

as if it was to be the first kiss our lips would learn to sculpt, 

the last our hearts could ever endure.

Earth's crust has shifted a thousand times since,

a bold metronome moving currents of blood, 

a surging as deep and tempestuous as uncharted seas.

In an instant, our forgotten wings unfurled around each other; 

we did not fear the sun — no, we merged with it, 

our souls burning, our laughter buoyant —  

we were so tender, so honest, as though birth had just begun,

contractions pushing away years of minutiae, 

pulling ancient echoes from shells, gleaming remnants of foreign tides. 

Once, eagles and butterflies soared together in splendid fields.

We could not imagine distant evolutions, shadows and profiles so different —  

we only sensed a rising of fragrances, gatherings of seeds yet to come. 

Now, you lay quietly beneath soil softened and swollen with rain; 

my steps are slower, more cautious as I hold onto another's gentle, sturdy hands. 

He knows your names, your songs, your rhythms, scars seared by your absence — 

he has his own to consider, to soothe as night edges close, weary with mewling. 

We do not scorn or scoff at the existence of memories left unspoken, 

for we understand loyalties to other lives and loves we knew before now.

The Folly of Memory

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

He turned away from light, toward dusky silence,

unable to digress

any further than he already had.

She paused in confusion

for what might have been lost

inside the turning of leaves.

She thought she'd heard music

caught within his quiet whirlpools;

yet, perhaps it was drowning instead.

Even when we are distant from memories so vibrant,

we can never be sure

of what we thought we knew.

This truth we cradle recklessly

is only speculation.

O Fragrant Night

           — Inspired by the poem "I Am Going To Sleep" by Alfonsina Storni

O fragrant night, how you seduce our every breath, 

culling our bones from beneath your succulent soil, 

causing us to long for what is inevitable, unendurable...

We fold and unfold each blanket 

as though our magnum opus is laden with origami thoughts, 

our final sculpture bereft of both rawness and innocence;

we belong to the forgotten past — 

still, an unknown future beckons us with unsung music.

Moist and unbidden, we try to rise within sharp edges of light,

foraging through darkness as we stretch towards infinite dreams.

Slumber is sweet and solace may yet be found

as we search between each gathering of unformed stars...

Little Girl Lost (In Memory of Amy Winehouse)

                      — In Memory of Amy Winehouse

Little girl lost, 

yet unafraid of broad, bold darknesses,

will tattoo your heart with her somber shadows,

then erupt the sky with a brilliant smile

that doesn't quite reach her eyes. 

She wears her bravado like an ornate shield,

hides in plain sight with palms splayed open

and dares you to lean upon her precipice

without falling too far from view.

Her lullabyes shatter your resolve

and stun you with their sharp edges,

leaving nicks in your flesh; she murmurs low

and slow in knowing as she applies her potent salve,

understanding all too well that healing is often incomplete

and forgetting the wounding, an impossible task.

A quiet and fierce gladiator from birth,

she was borne of fire into the ring,

keening with a lioness' roar -

she did not shirk or shrink from the fight,

but cast all caution to the tempest, 

believing the battle was already lost - 

her lone desire was to please the bloodthirsty crowd

and leave her mark in striated sand, 

if only to be remembered 

for a moment.