The following poem is dedicated to my friend, Sherry Smith. (The following link takes you to a site that has dozens of painted images of the Annunciation. )


 Painting the Annunciation


On a thin ribbon of light

unfurled from unseen heaven

direct to this just parted robe

and disquieted ear


comes an angel’s voice,

the dove’s winged companion,

with words foretold in the book

now slipping to the floor.


What hunger fires

our flickering imaginations,

that require Grace come

wrapped in such velvet purses-


with proof of the child’s

purity dripping from tables

and prophet encrusted walls?

I think they had it all wrong-


Veronese, Martini,

van Ecyk, and even

my old friend, Fra Angelico.

I prefer a scene without


their waxing lilies-

no fine linens, puffing cherubs,

or inlaid feathers on display.

I picture her instead


at her daily labor - pulling

on a dirty rope at the village well.

With calloused hands, she

draws her trembling reflection


skyward, when, announced

by the slightest breeze,

a stranger appears.

Before their eyes meet,


a bird’s flight distracts her-

water splashes from the bucket

washing the dust from her feet

and staining the tattered hem


of her robe. His glance

holds her only for a moment -

 in the distance, a voice

calls out, “Daughter!”


She turns,  sets off,

bowing to her burden.

A cloud’s shadow

melts in the heat of the road .


by Tom Spencer


















































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