A sonnet

Feast Day

The wintry gusts roll through this little town
like cattle eager for some fresh new grass
Should wind attack my skin like this? –A frown.
Thanks be to God, the glory of this Mass.

A hint of fur, a nose of rosy red
her eyes peak out beneath the woolen cap
God bless you, sir! a holy day! she said.
And bless you too, hands fumbling in his lap

The Lord of Lords himself offered again
as many times for many He does often
forgiveness, joy, thanksgiving for all men
and women, hardened hearts He makes to soften

But oh your perfume wafts across the pew!
and all my prayers are only about you.

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