Sarah Webb

The Stars That Send Their Light

When you think about it,
the stars aren’t much to go by.
Oh, out out somewhere
in the dark they are
great world furnaces
eating the fabric of space.
Their hearts roar
but that sound does not reach us,
the sound of stars collapsing,
flames reaching.
For us they are dim lamps
faded by distance and time,
flickers that the clouds obscure.
Yet tidal waves of light spill toward us.
Take my hand, dear one.
We will stand in that light.


In the Stirring

In the stirring of the stars,
bold light against the blue-black sky,
I look for you.

A light in my body rushes out,
a startled wave.
I tell myself that it is you,
that you have come through.
But in truth I do not know.

Does the moon mask the sun’s disk
and flame reach past like pulsing hair?

Do I, a great fountain, pour out
through every blade, tree,
this human body?

Becoming one?
Or one from the beginning?


The Body of Earth and Sky

Clay-crumbling legs, rabbitbrush thighs
canyon and plain stretching rough with sage
dust wind past mesa and headland:

our body big
bigger yet when the fires of stars
touch the black.

Walking I feel my step.
Rock click, grass brush tell me
we are here. I am here.

If I could empty myself to the wind
let its sigh be my sigh
if I could sit in the night and be just night

the flick of the bobcat’s ear would speak
the rabbit come near and see my eye.
We would be the body together.

But this is not to be done.
I shift and cramp on the hard stone.
Rabbit thumps his leg and bobcat slinks away.

And still we are one body.


One by One

The wind tears the gauze of the clouds.
Stars drift over.
I walk, following a song in my head.
The air is mild, is dark.
It moves in me.

One by one the stars appear,
a starry field.
One tells the other, it is possible to come.
One tells the other, this is how we shine.

In ancient days before the cities and the smoke,
the sky was crowded bright;
a traveler need only look above to find his way.
Our night is darker, but we still look up.
See, says a star, I have come too.


The Tent

The tent draws us,
moths from the forest dark,
to gaze at the lantern building.
Inside, laughter and a swirl of shapes,
some slow dance.

Young women bend to whisper
to children whose faces lift
like cups filling
with a knowlege almost lost

learning yes,
now before they hear from other mouths,
unreasonable, impossible, no.

Their shadows sway against the lighted cloth.
We crowd close from the night
to watch that shadow play.
We strain to hear the low chant.
We whisper, yes. We dare to say, yes.


Displaying 2015-09-26 Sarah Window 11.55.09.jpg

Sarah Webb lives in the Texas Hill Country with her hound dog Rex and reads frequently in Oklahoma and Texas. Her poetry collection Black (virtual artists collective, 2013) was a finalist for the 2014 Oklahoma Book Award and the 2014 Writers’ League of Texas Book Award. She served as Poetry Editor for the University of Science and Arts of Oklahoma’s interdisciplinary journal Crosstimbers. She is presently a member of the editorial committee for All Roads Will Lead You Home and a co-editor of Just This, a magazine of the Zen arts. She can be reached at bluebirdsw.blogspot.com


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