The Annunciation

He came at midday and spoke with the voice
of old lovers I would never have.

He said my name. As he turned to go
a feather grazed my cheek.
I watched the floor.

The sun crawled toward its empty bed
and as the chill of desert evening drew near
I did not move.

Gold went purple;
with the first star I was lit.
I rose to bake the next day's bread,
the scent of lilies in my hair.

Art: The Annunciation by James C. Christensen

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