Familiar as my bedchamber is,

I miss the temple.

Not the raucous crowds,

or the squeal of lambs

or squawk of pigeons

readied for the sacrifice,

but His Presence.

I met God in the temple,

and he knew me.

In some strange way,

I even feel him here.

I snuggle down

on my sleeping mat,

and close my eyes.

But not for long.

An angel slips into my room,

announces that God is on his way,

then tells me I am to be mother

of Messiah, the Promised One,

the Savior of our people;

that my once-barren cousin Elizabeth,

too old to bear a child,

bears one now.

What sense am I

to make of that?

I rub my eyes,

waiting to wake,

unable to shake this vision.

Lord?

What is happening?

I feel a gentle warmth

settling over me,

fingers of heat

fluttering from naval to knee.

Am I dreaming?

What is this cloud of light?

I close my eyes

and count to three,

but when I look again,

the shadow without darkness

is still swallowing me whole.

I poke its side,

then hide my face

when my touch

sends up sparks without flame.

Lord,

what is this cool fire

that licks my skin,

and why do I tingle so?