Thomas A Thomas
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.
