By Jill Crammond Wickham

The thing about summer is,
summer is restless.
Trees hang around
waiting for something to happen.
Young boys pick and choose identities.
By day, two-sworded pirates jab
innocent village girls in the back
with inflatable weapons.
By night, brave, doomed colonial soldiers
cringe at cannon fire,
charge imaginary foes
with broken twigs.

This summer, we see British regulars
around every corner,
spy painted, feathered Indians
behind every tree.
Still, summer is restless.
Mothers stop mothering,
administer care in fits and starts,
fueled by tall, sweating cups
of strong ice coffee.
Little sisters do not wait for something to happen.
Little sisters don three-corner hats,
pick up wooden swords,
walk the plank to the very tip,
and dive in of their own free will
in the eternal cause for gold and debauchery.

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