On Thursday,
I fell in serious high regard
with a younger lady at church.
I think she’s about 55,

which I remember—young enough
to tell yourself you’re still in bloom,
not withering as I am now. Withered.

I had seen her before, I’m sure,
but something about the stained-glass
light across her face as she laid quilts
over the pews for the annual show,

something about the patches of light
and patches of fabric, a lightness
in her hands. I thought of possible

mornings.