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t.m. thomson


Sun spokes stretch overhead    behind    and in the sky of near future    this sweet
August afternoon as we drive through Indiana. Crows soar over fields in clumps,
orange spangles swell & pop around sun, hum of car satisfies. We know dark
approaches, but slowly, like deer wading in the blue twilight, their ocean
of grass & lichen & mushroom flowing under a sturgeon moon,
then ebbing under the same dawn that ferries fox back to den.
We know that shadows will inundate fields with a briny
azure coiling in breeze’s breath, the rustling froth
a herald of the cold-to-come & welcome in the
summer’s end swelter. For now, we ride this
sizzling caw-laden brilliant hour—
its crooning miles    its fields
at low tide    the road
a desire-line of wish
& where.

Keeper of Time


She resides in January’s hard stars

in the amphora-buds of poppies

in the legs of Jesus lizards

as they walk on swamps


She looks out from the black eyes

of barred owl & harlequin toad

the honeyed irises of tarsiers

the pink-peaked stalks

of mantis shrimp


She perches on thunder’s cracked edge

in the center of chocolate cherry

sunflowers’ ruby ray-petals

amid the pleats of a fairy

armadillo’s shell


She roosts in hibiscus with swooping tongues

in the coral pulp of pink lady apples

in the lightning of stellar nurseries

their struggling gases & dust

purling in the blackness

pearling the pitch


She sleeps in skeleton flowers with lollipop

naves of green pistils & yellow stamen

as rain trickles down leaf & stem

rendering petals



Notes of Rain

When pie & grape have fallen into the mouths 

of ravens who assault the meal with brio & bounce


when crust falls from their beaks & dog chases them

pointlessly, pawing the mash potatoes & wrinkling


the picnic blanket, its plaid no longer orderly-square,

when wind joins in & purloins your hat, shatters china, 


launches white napkins up & sideways, when you wonder

if this meal was even meant for you as talons scatter 


ketchup & snout rifles through beans, consider:  

this fare may not be for you, but there is feast in the wild 


valley of switchgrass, its ends pink as champagne, 

& in the locust tree flowers, heady as grapes. 


You can walk away from blanket & brittle dish & hat

& napkin & mayhem crows & hapless canine


& dine on the banquet of sky piled high with juicy 

clouds & its simmering bouquet of breeze 


& notes of rain.

~inspired by Andrea Kowch’s “Soiree”


About t.m. thomson

t.m. thomson’s work has been featured in several journals, most recently in Soundings East, and three of her poems have been nominated for Pushcart Awards. She has co-authored Frame and Mount the Sky (2017) and is the author of Strum and Lull (2019) and The Profusion (2019). Her full-length collection, Plunge, is forthcoming.

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