Articles by Sally Thomas

Sally Thomas

Sally Thomas's new book, Motherland, was a finalist for the 2018 Able Muse Book Award in poetry, and will appear from Able Muse Press in the fall of 2019. She is also the author of two poetry chapbooks: Fallen Water (2015) and Richeldis of Walsingham (2016), both from Finishing Line Press. Her poetry and fiction have appeared recently in The Agonist, Forma, Mezzo Cammin: An Online Journal of Formalist Poetry by Women, North Carolina Literary Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry. She lives and writes in the Western Piedmont of North Carolina.


The Hermit Prays the Liturgy of the Hours

Although he’s not a priest, he’s made an altar Beneath his eastern window. When the first sun Strikes the maple tabletop, the shine Calls to him. It’s there he keeps his psalter Between two beeswax candles. Christ Pantocrator Gleams in red and gold, His life-book open In His hand. Unreadable words, unspoken, Catch at the…

Eastertide

The hermit hangs his habit out to dryIn new sun. Once upon a time he hadTwo habits: one good habit and one bad.Down to one, he’s bare. Today God’s eyeProbes every part of him. The tumbled skyThat shines through broken tesserae of cloudQuickens and touches him. The creek is loudWith springtime. Wading in, he wonders…

Ordinary Time

On a sweeter day of sun and windy sky, The hermit stands in his doorway drinking tea. Though spring declares itself, it’s only January. These gentle southern mountains seem to sigh With longing. Above the trees, a hawk’s thin cry Unspools, a silver thread of hunger. He Listens. Hears his heart’s reply, its plea For…

All Souls, in Morning Fog

At dawn a clammy silence wraps the ridge. Before he makes his tea, the hermit hikes Through grounded cloud to the summit, the very edge Of the world. Before him, nothing. The hidden creek’s Wind-noise speaks to him from the rising whiteness. A hawk skirls and hangs where the sky clears. Morning leans through the…

The Hermit at Midsummer

He’s watched his body age. Its taut topography — Never a greedy eater, always active — Loosens as its man-shaped coastline, worn By battering years, surrenders to the gravity That pulls the tides. If life means to dissolve — Is this the rule? And is the rule commutative: If birth is death, to die is…

(c) 2019 North American Anglican