Where were you when the angel came
On an ordinary day
In a town of no reputation?
Surely you were alone
In that all-shattering moment,
In the house?
In the field?
By the well?
What were you thinking
When your world turned inside out?
And did those thoughts return?
And how do angels come:
With great beating wings
Of terror?
Or quietly walking
As if they were always there?
Or simply present
Like a sunbeam’s touch on your face?
Can you look in their eyes?
Or does their merest glance
Cover the whirling galaxies
And the steeped up slopes of time?
And which was harder,
Telling others,
Or believing it yourself?
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