As stunning as Gabriel’s having plunged
through the mesosphere of pious rank
and pierced your ceiling of doubt—
as stunning as finding Gabriel in your kitchen
(sudden inhalation, wooden spoon dropped,
hand at your chest, glance at the door. Vivid silence.
Bits of light drifting down through the startled air.)—
as confounding as Gabriel looking you in the eyes,
flaunting propriety and shame’s vaunted exactitude,
agleam with flaming feathers of something vaguely
foreign yet familiar, humble and overpowering—
as inconceivable (yet you will conceive) as all that
is this: that it is you, yes, who Gabriel addresses:
that in you, you, something holy stirs, awaits your consent,
by no one else’s doing but your own:
that you might bear into this world a miraculous love,
that you might raise and nurture this divine gift,
feeding from your own breast, carrying in your own arms
this light from the first “Let there be,”
this power that will last—yes, you, if only you will agree—
and maybe most amazing, that Gabriel
with hope in those shimmering eyes waits patiently
for your word.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

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