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    Lauren Tilden, Late Autumn, detail

    Two Sonnets

    Sally Thomas

    August 7, 2020
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    In the Fullness of Time

    Time, the hermit thinks, is always full.
    Unlike the moon, it does not wax and wane,
    But incubates the future endlessly.
    It fares forth daily, with its pregnant waddle,
    Plods the same road, points the same direction,
    Never arrives or labors, or else incessantly
    Arrives, every second is giving birth.
    The hermit wonders how to understand
    This strange phrase from the Gospel writer’s hand.
    He thinks: Does time itself in time bring forth
    Eternity, to intervene in time? –
    His head hurts now. The candle’s burning low
    And won’t restore itself. Outside, new snow
    Shines. The moon, unveiled, is full in time.

    Lauren Tilden, Late Autumn, detail

    Lauren Tilden, Late Autumn
    Image courtesy of Lauren Tilden

    Michaelmas

    These autumn afternoons, black thundershowers
    Break above the ridge, to rinse the dust
    From the slanting light. The last pale tattered coneflowers
    Mourn at the hermit’s door. Before first frost,
    The rain makes everything intense with life.
    Today he sees a doe and half-grown fawn
    Browsing his ruined garden. In one brief
    Glimpse the world holds still. They dapple and darken
    On his vision, are more present to him than his skin.
    His heart’s lost to them. Charged, electric,
    The world’s more real than human minds imagine.
    Its pure unseen intelligences shock
    Him into knowing more than he can know.
    The deer depart. He does not see them go.

    Contributed By Sally Thomas Sally Thomas

    Sally Thomas is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, and teacher.

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