The stair isn't cold, 'Mary',
  sitting there in the shadows,
  staring past the newel post
  upon the face of devotion.
 
  Can you twist away
  into childhood, again,
  after her eye meets yours
  and she resumes her prayer?
 
  You're startled, of course,
  a bit embarrassed and
  just shrink into the shadow
  as if your life hadn't changed.
 
  But it was sitting there, 'Mary',
  that a proud child died;
  for seeking someone better
  she saw the model of herself.