Stacked sideways, low in the stream
lucky stones transported from the ocean
seem brighter as fresh water rushes over.
Colors come back: umber, amber, char,
but the salt that sanded their contours
is gone in a far-off sea.
Each clutched for luck, small rocks
hold their chiseled, layered shape, their intent
to keep safe the stair step
the doctor’s verdict
the random draw.
But together, underwater, their coordinated bands
streak a line of white down the assembly and suddenly
the form suggests the limit between now and then,
passable and tragedy, sun and rain,
whether you will be here when I return.
///////////////
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 work has appeared in Aaduna, Mudfish, Ekphrasis, San Pedro River Review, Potomac Review, Petrichor Review, 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).
Lightwood 