Especially along the sleeves it's the color of pollen, of
fiddleheads against a deeper green, the earliest spring
of wintered leaves.

And the way it fits — though I admit, at first, I didn't
notice it, nor the corduroy
collar, brown,

made to adjust like the elasticized wrists as if puckered
up against a thirsty rain. And I stood poorly
dressed in a broken umbrella,

a pink cotton mess, rapt, to hear him explain the reasons
for break-away seams: that he may better
mount his horse.

Although, of course, by then I knew that he could ride, could
shoot, could train, could philosophize; still, I hadn't
realized what he does

best. Nor would I yet. I'd have to get to
know him some. I thought it was that Barbour jacket
turning me on.