Hummingbird Annunciation
Robert Cording
It's no wonder Gabriel appears
At my elbow, flashing his ruby throat, levitating,
And holding steady a foot or so
From a blooming orange azalea. It's not me
He wants but those trumpeting petals.
Earlier this morning, I looked at a book
Of annunciation paintings, the curve
Of Mary's body finding a graceful equipoise
Between the fear and acceptance as she holds herself
Open to the awful wonder of an angel.
Who tells her the good news
And also that her child's silent partner
Will be death. Perhaps all annunciations
Involve the infernal terms living asks of us all.
My dear friend must decide today
Whether her husband of forty years should be
Removed from life support. She gave herself
To the next thing that needed doing
When her husband's slow, terrible dying
Became unredeemable. And me?
I've often shrunk the world to my desire
That everything will be all right,
A crude defense meant to exclude whatever
Is uncontrollable. I turn away, afraid to be
Empty enough for something to enter.
Except perhaps something as small
As this tiny whirlwind, this sheen
Of emerald and ruby darting in and out
Of blooms, buzzing at my elbow as if with news
I can choose or not choose to hear.
Cording, Robert. Common Life. CavanKerry Press, 2006. 23-4]
No comments:
Post a Comment