Thomas A. Thomas

   In a time

There are times when I feel trapped in time.

And this is one of those times, the year 2020,

a time in the impossible future I expected not 

to be alive to see, and the month is August 

and August is the month and time of litany.

It is the month of my one wedding, the month

of gaining a son who could have been thirty-one. 

It is the month of our first walk along the salt

shore together, and of my beloved’s first illness, 

harbinger of worse to come, month of our lost

mortgage, of bankruptcy, August of learning 

my only brother had renal cell carcinoma, would 

follow my father to that hard darkness so soon,

the month of disability determination, August

of a diagnosis at last, terribly final as it is.

And it is still the month berries ripen along

humid vines, corn ears swell in steamy fields, 

as fawns fatten out of their spots, gorging on

clover blossoms and dandelion blooms, as seal 

pups bask between fishing lessons, as fingerlings

flash to avoid shadows as kingfisher young 

learn not to make shadows as they dive, it is

the month apples begin to blush at the thought 

of falling, time of joy upon joy, joy upon sorrow,

time of sorrow time of love upon love upon love.

Instead of god

say heron, say kingfisher,

say that was the tenth summer 

my wife was dying and I

was not.

Instead of god say 

a name, like Ann or Grace

or Jane, say the one who broke

me open in a new way this

wholly unexpected time.

Instead of god say love

let Joy in the side door and she

sits in the kitchen now in the 

warmth of fresh bread and 

cinnamon and honey.

Instead of god say only

desire, want, say pomegranate,

poplar tree, say stay, say please,

say thank you, say love again

dark and light and forever. 

That time by the river

It was summer, early, 

or perhaps spring

late; all time, 

and no time,

hours or an eternity, 

time like torrents of snowmelt, roaring

and whispering, both. The water

carrying starlight down

from the high peaks;

time slow, like blossoms

opening in their time, wild

rose, daisy, lupin, paintbrush.

Our human time was not carnal,

was incarnate, our intimacy like

the spotted sandpipers’ tender probing

among shining rocks at the river’s edge 

for nymphs and larvae, sustenance

plucked from cold clear joy.

Our kindnesses showed a higher love

as the blue heron paused 

on a dead branch of a snowing 

cottonwood tree, as our bodies rested 

on the bank below, as cedar waxwings danced 

from snag to sky, caught sparkling

insects in the silent air’s sunlight 

above the singing rush of water that

spilled toward its calmer home.

And a fritillary alit, sunlit, alight 

and spinning its dance on the yellow 

heart of a daisy for us… or not for us, just 

there: red, gold, orange, and silver afire, 

as wings opened and closed, not in sorrow, nor

joy, not in acceptance or forgiveness

or surrender or anything that calls

for earthly tears, just there before us, 

below the peaks so high above, above

the river sparkling past, day into night, as

wind stirred the trees above it, lifted our eyes 

beyond our eyes to the currents that move the stars.