Season For A Shawl Poem by Lois Read

The out of season cool
this mid-August morning
sends the ermine scurrying
to shake the moth flakes
out of the pockets of
his winter-white coat
has him telegraph north
to the Caribou, the Baby Harp Seal
the Arctic Fox and Arctic Hare
to do the same.

Not so fast! I call out.
The summer of my life
is slipping by, true
but I'm not ready yet
for my long sleep
that will come too soon
have yet to start
to knit my grave shroud.
Too much to see. Too much to do.

When my seasons end,
I won't qualify for robes
of angel white,
so please
when my time comes
just wrap me
in the golden Care shawl
friends gave me years ago
when I got new knees.