Sarah Wyman

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. Codhill Press published her book Fried Goldfinch (2021).

One Week Later

That one, cross-cut by another gull’s wing narrows in on the minnow swimming cold winter shoreline catching light near the surface, hardly sun on the iron morning where a cityscape awakes far from the noisy frenzy of feathers and amber beaks lost of their feeding dots. A person tilts on the dock, nourished by the activity of the crowd aloft, torn between new heights and the plunge. In one of those windows distantly invisible as a bird’s eye but easily imagined stands the one who reigned them all in with a treat last weekend. They’re ghosted in this moment swarming their cyclone back into the oil drum the genie’s bottle.

Trout Lily


Filled teapot of trout lilies sending steam like a fish pretending flower with dappled leaves that pave the forest floor with yellow petal sips of early spring. By winter, we will have made our way between the dots, curled all the oblongs about puffs of crisped air gathering moisture as the nights lengthen and we long for golden stars crouched under snowy earth implicit in the seed or threaded tuber network the irregular schools of light rippling through branches. We’ll pour out warmth as the blooms spit their innards and powder peat with pollen so summer swell carries new colonies of blossoms downstream to other wooded glens.

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