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, 

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