IT was the small Book clasped upon my knee—
The Testament, gleaming, pure as the Sea.
A purse of white patent, like the shoes I wore,
In stillness I sat, seeking something more.

With my clutch held gently, a model I’d be,
In reverence, praying, in hush, quietly.
When the preacher called forth, my heart did align,
As I clutched my purse close, in that moment divine.

A vision of beauty, like Colleen Corby,
In the pages of Seventeen, fashion’s story.
If I could but sit thus, with grace and with pride,
A thrill of delight through my Sunday dress glides.

My mother, she spoke of the “flowers” with glee,
As we wandered in Gulfport, just she and me.
The ruffles and gathers, like waves in the air,
In the mirror, I glimpsed froth, with innocent flair.