by Jane Lang

It came when Autumn came
the last of the oppressive heat led
the way - opened doors, flung up a
window behind the flowered chintz
chair she used to sit in humming a
small quiet song, darning a sock
tapping her toe to an internal beat
somewhere behind those black
wire rim glasses as her fingers
deftly wove round-and-about the
smooth wooden “egg” I was
fascinated by, taken with and again
and again, she sang the words, told
me the story of the small pert bird,
a natural mimic and songster, and
how in Autumn the tune came into
her head as heat waned, and I would
hear her clear sweet voice sing
“Hush little baby don’t say a word”

like I hear it now.


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