Although Time may be that Heraclitean river no one can step into twice, it's not really linear. Rapids churn in some places and it scarcely flows at others, almost stagnant. And the current often sideslips into eddies that circle indefinitely. At least Time seems to function like that as it flows through the memories of a long life. The Eightieth Year, although in the form of a journal comprising numbered entries for fifty-two weeks, follows the river through all of those variations, allowing memory to float downstream like a stick, accepting both whitewater and quiet pools, diverted into eddies as they come. No need any more to hurry.
"Of what is a life composed? In this apophatic lyric sequence, Don Thompson reflects upon the connections and patterns that have wended and frayed throughout his eighty years, harmonizing metaphor, memory, and his maybe-nemesis, the wind. These poems show us how to be attentive to others and how to accept ourselves, whether our oak is a burlap seedling or a stack of cordwood waiting for winter."
