Say That An Angel Came Instead

north of the stars we looked for her
and the weathervanes creaking
in January's snowiness,

in the hidden heart or
where her veils lifted,her dress,
in a painting by Monet

of the meadow strung wind,
its beaded sunlight-
or among the wreaths

left along the highways
of diffident shrines
and the weeds grown over Time itself.

shy was she of discovery, perhaps
crowned prematurely by
Renaissance artists

and not at her behest

painting grandiloquently
her departures in heavy velvets,
cherubic decor. brocaded duress.

of course, she did not die,
they murmur, the crowds,
what the saints once called The World

lingering like children
after the Fair or
like you or I,renunciation's dream

our candle cast shadows
apart

waiting for visions of
the blue and the gold,
for the tinsmiths to finish the heart

for lilies cascading from her hands;

the beatitude that understands
everything that can happen
on Earth

to those thought poorly of.

and will there be the myriad wings
of the valentine doves
we made in school?

her children sing but
as a rule,
on earth, she kept things to herself

since who would believe her,

but the angel sent to say Ave, Maria
think that she had heard
the goldfinch encrypted rains on the roof

witholding their reproofs,
and far less, God
with His pearled and storied

Word in the early evening
of all her singular prayers

say that an angel came instead
she whispered to the chroniclers
of blood.

and then she whispered, Love.

mary angela douglas 16 november 2016;2 november 2023