​There is no question about it.

​Some changes are predictable, 
Expected. 
Sumer, Fall, Winter, Spring, 
with plenty of time to 
turn, turn, turn.

Lately, though, change arrives in a flash. 
A drop dead, earthquake, bomb of a moment. 
Crash. 
If you're still upright, 
the resonance alone is enough to knock you down.

Time stands 
Still we keep revolving around the sun, 
the moon orbits 
and breezes sweep us up with their 
demanding, obligating pals:

Sleep 
Wake 
Eat 
Wash

While exploding now onto 
new playing fields we did not imagine. 
Why would we?

Just last year, (or was it the year before?) 
There was only fall around the corner 
coming with dry, bright leaves, 
crisp, fireplace air, 
fleecy sleeves and scarves, 
more moisturizer.

​
—Suzanne McDermott
21 September 20017

©2017 Suzanne McDermott/All Rights Reserved

​
The last days of white linen,
of wide brimmed hats 
slanted against the sun, 
stroll into the long weekend bookend of summer--
Toes in salt water and sand (if you’re lucky).

The last days of white linen
flap against still summer breezes and
wrinkle into sun-kissed skin
lined with all of the preceding seasons of stories
and marbled with yumminess, forgiven in the moment.

The last days of white linen
whisper of gentle folding and tucking away
with trust in the future.

This will be good next season.
I will be here to wear it.

Acrid, smoky, nearby smudges of fire will expire
with the rising of crocuses, daffodils.
Damp from the floods will evaporate after the
ice and snow (if you’re lucky).

The last days of white linen 
will resurrect their fabric and form
early next summer,
as they always have

In seasons of heat 
and bare shoulders.


—Suzanne McDermott
30 August 20017

©2017 Suzanne McDermott/All Rights Reserved