There where we walked over stones
between cliff face and sea
trees stretched our spirits
to sunshine, to sky
and the stream’s drill awoke
the blood, tunneling mud,
dusk’s temporary tanglings
with the earth that supports us.
And here, fenced in by the departed,
the task too large, too trivial
when whatever bond between us
becomes nothing more than a passing bridge
over, under, beyond which the flowing bath
obscures the solace of solitude
that grates like granite,
any touch rubs like a rubber step on rough surface,
like the catching heel before the jump.
Sarah Wyman writes and teaches on verbal / visual intersections and lives in the Hudson Valley where climbing feet kick dust down to a river-sea. Her poetry has appeared in Aaduna, Mudfish, Ekphrasis, San Pedro River Review, Potomac Review, Petrichor Review, Heron Clan VII, Chronogram, Shawangunk Review, A Slant of Light: Contemporary Women Poets of the Hudson Valley (Codhill), and other venues. Finishing Line Press published her chapbook Sighted Stones (2018).