Holy Week

Days of frantic sewing —

of dotted Swiss and seersucker and sometimes

pink wool, for a coat cinched with a chain.

Of dresses passed down, pared to size;

of rick-rack and hand-sewn hems. Of buttons

plucked from the button-tin, lucky if matched.

All was new or new to me:

gloves soft as a rabbit's ear, a pearl at each wrist.

Shoes to grow-into, and a hat that snapped

an elastic welt under the chin.

I tripped off to mass with my five sisters,

fussy in last-minutes stitches.

Impatient with The Strife is O'er — the dirge of it!

Wanting only to shed this membrane of prettiness,

escape to the topmost branches of a maple

where I could bellow my hymns —

my solo Alleluia's —

swaying on thin limbs.