I love the old ladies at church
with their kind eyes, sagging chins, experienced hands.
Their tenderness and wisdom envelope me.
They sit in pews decked in holiday sweaters
next to their husbands’ starched collars
with folds of neck like soft deer hide
and tufts of white that stand on end
or next to their husband’s spirits
gone this last year or two or ten.
Whatever their stories or sins or sorrows
they’ve got that love of Christ thing right.