Now in Autumn: Sonnet II
by Christine M. Jones
On the clothesline, dries her flowered blouse.
And while a soft breeze blows, she makes
precise small piles by the house.
Her merry rake, no leaf escapes.
Now wears a berry fleece, wool hat,
ill-fitted, knitted long ago.
She fancies red birds bright & fat,
spreads toasted breadcrumbs in the grove.
Now greets the cedar tree by name,
the cat, the squirrel, with ma chère.
Her thoughts, unfazed, a late noon shade,
rest in the old oak rocking chair.
And when the twilight hours come,
she briefly hears Maintenant, her name.