the least I can do

to help me focus,

sort truth from wild imagination.

After all, where is the evidence

that my visit from

Gabriel and God

was more than a dream?

The very idea seems

impossible to me now,

that somehow Jehovah

would place

his son in me.

Three days have passed,

and life remains common

as birdsong and morning

as I move swiftly through

the market at Sepphoris,

careful to guard my purse

from the sly fingers

of small thieves.

I am here to purchase

fresh coriander and thyme,

but a tumbling mound of

luscious pomegranates

tipping the scales

of a nearby merchant

tempts me to add a few

to my basket.

I reach for one,

only to drop it when I hear

“Gabriel?”

My heart races at the sound.

“Gabriel?”

I spin round to discover

the source of my distraction.

It is a young woman,

not much older than me.

Could it really be?

Does she see the angel too?

I rush toward her,

my mind fumbling for

words to ask that

impossible question.

Two steps away,

my lips part just as

a little boy darts

from behind a market stall.

“Gabriel,” she scolds, “how often

must I tell you not to run from me

in the marketplace?”

I lower my head and turn away,

feeling foolish.

And yet, I cannot shake the feeling

of that holy presence

in my bedchamber,

nor any longer deny

that the archangel’s voice

still rings in my ear.

Did he not say

he knew of my cousin, Elizabeth?

That Jehovah had visited her too?

Once and for all,

I must learn if it is true.

I head home to pack.

My puny purchases