Late August

Sycamores are first to curl

and drop their leaves and "I sense"

dry, late August with relief:

the spot on my mother's lung

is not cancer, just an idle

shadow slumbering. I welcome

dormancy, but set sprinklers

in my yard, watering burnt

hydrangea, crisp clematis.

Everywhere I look the world

is withering on spindly legs.

At work a patient recoils

when I touch her arm, "I will

take care of you," I tell her.

"Take care. Take care,"

she repeats. I give her

oxygen, parcelled doses

of anesthesia, unfurl her

twisted legs. Another patient

fingers a St. Teresa medal

pinned to her gown. When I ask

about daughters, she searches

trees outside the window

for ages, names.

In the market

a man cradles his

arthritic hand around a

peach. "Do they feel ripe?"

he asks. I find him

three perfect peaches.

By Kelly Sievers, CRNA

Previously published in FIREWEED,
Vol 11, No. 3, Spring 2000