This entry is part 53 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011


Are words more beautiful than things? In El
Greco’s painting of The Annunciation, the angel
in the gold-colored tunic is half-kneeling, half-
floating on a puff of cloud. The woman appears
to be in a scriptorium, though there is a marble
courtyard with a view of columns beyond, and a sky
chalked with white and blue. No oversized stars
reel yet in the dark, no hills ringed with the arms
of trees gilded with frost; no stumbling pilgrims
following the strange compulsion to search for
omens in the deepest part of the year. According to
tradition, he says to her: Be not afraid. Think about it:
how it is completely plausible she might have wanted
to bolt, run away to hide in the kitchen, in the fields
only stretching like eternity. But here is the moment,
clear and still: her hand pressed to her heart, thin
strip of crimson ribbon marking her place in the book.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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