Portrait in Sunlight

Within her garden now she sits and suns, Her life being over as surely as the last Death rattle of the rusted Confederate guns. Oblivious of time, or traffic past Her boxwood hedge, she knits away the hours; A robin twitters and with questioning eyes Observes her from the pear tree’s greening towers That tremble with his casual melodies. The village clock speaks with authority, Dividing afternoon with impartial hands; She does not hear; nor notice a butterfly Whose wings reflect the colors of her strands. She knits, and suddenly smiles, as though a wind Had stirred the secret lilacs of her mind.