Annunciations

A slight sound at evening picks me up by the ears and makes life seem

inexpressibly serene and grand. It may be in Uranus, or it may be in

the shutter.

Thoreau's JOURNALS.

It may be

that the ledge of ice

sliding from the roof

is the world's crust

cracking, letting us

see out,

or that the bees

humming in the wall

are voices of the kind

Mary heard

when the wind lifted

its wings softly

and she knelt, simply

to still her trembling

knees.

Or it may be

that the thin language

of the leaves is not

calling you at all,

even if your ear

quivers with importance

as the trees murmur

back and forth, back

and forth all evening, only

to themselves.

Sometimes the light

shifts suddenly, causing us

to look. We notice

the radiance of the old

chair.... Eager

for messages,

we interpret this

as a sign.

It may be.

Which is why, this evening

when the walls of my grief seemed

impenetrable,

the cardinal on the wire

called me out,

though of course it didn't

and was talking only

to someone like itself.

Anyway

I happened to overhear,

and now the stars

are lighting up the maple,

and anyone might believe

this light was intentional

as if it were sent

light-years ago

to move toward tonight

like a gift.

And tonight,

in my yard,

it may be.