Of Hat and Shoes

Should I remove my shoes?
In her wimple, kneeling on the floor,
Sister Cecilia’s rhythm caught my ear,
and only then my eye, her sleeves rolled,
her arms dimpling with the strain,
the sound of winter pines rubbing in the wind,
caught in her song and scrubbing.

Should I touch my hat,
passing her on the narrow stairs—a breeze
follows her habit of Poor Clares—the brim
across my stare, do I dare to raise my hand?

How is it those trees are more beautiful in snow
against half-hidden seeds and wrap of bark?
How shall I confess these reveries, and less
than that, what becomes of love not blessed?

— Rick Maxson

T. S. Poetry

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