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
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
