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
