In August the heat became intense and Rita languished in decline. At this point, everything went straight into her mouth; cords, fingers, jewelry. Anything. She had become an infant again and her weight had plunged to sixty pounds despite a good appetite, plenty of good food and care. This was so frustrating to watch. Two poems resulted. One peeked into the Fall with hopeful anticipation or cooler air. The other spoke of true frustration about Rita's circumstance and my knowing she'd hate it if her mind were clear. Two poems follow: "August" and "Rita," both from August, 2012.

August

These hot, waning days
Of Summer
I face the mountain
Once more
And ask, "Why?"
I anticipate Fall
And It's bounty
Intense heat upon my back
This cloth will not cling
In October
When grape vines
Raisin or wine
All ruby gold
Rise sweet
Under cooler gray sky


Rita

Rita wades in her death
Unable to take the plunge

Visit most days
I'd smoke
If I did

Instead I hover about
No good place to sit
Nor stand

Hope I'll be more daring
When my time comes
Or reasonable doubt
Prevails