An old woman
black lace veiled
kneels at her pew
hunched in solitude
crooked fingers
tremble
through a string
of beads
with Four Mysteries.
Bead by bead
fingers and thumbs
rub their tempo
of whispered prayer
into the trance
of a private divine.
No bead, no prayer more important
from one to the next.
No urge to count
or complete.
At the sign of the cross it begins
until the final
in nominee Patris
et Filii
et Spiritus Sancti
Amen.
