Literary Sampler: Essays, Book Reviews, and More...
Monthly Column by Charity Gingerich

Note: This poem is the author's interpretation of the painting to the left, titled Ecce Ancilla Domini (The Annunciation) by Dante Gabriel Rosetti (1828-1882).

Her feet were cold. Not long into slumber
the soft white blanket about them had puddled
to the floor and only now, as a wedge of midnight moon
cast its mysterious light about the room did she
awake sufficiently to cover their tingling. A rustling
like bedclothes drying in a stiff breeze in the courtyard
and the faint scuttle of Adva’s feathers as her head
came untucked were the first indications that she was
no longer alone. “Little wave? My little ripple?”
She called sleepily to the bird, remembering last
week’s stray dog hungrily climbing through her
window after chicken bones, bread crumbs. The tiny
pet had nearly become a midnight snack, both to her
and Adva’s terror. Instead of alighting on her out-
stretched hand as usual, the downy yellow song-
bird remained as still on its perch as if Akiva the art-
mason had suddenly cast it in stone. What she had taken
to be the faint rustle of bedclothes in the wind
had become the rushing wind itself, of water, hands
of trees, whirling black sky and planets whose
terrifying speed sang like notes plucked
on a shepherd boy’s harp from some far hillside.
The Presence, when it stood before her, seemed
but a figment of the moon at its back, a fantastic
extension of the night and her dreams. Gradually,
as dawn shapes a new day, the Presence grew
in brilliance and form and it was as if all light
that had ever been and was stood before her in 
blinding glory. But only for a second. As quickly
as the light had grown it faded, leaving a tall
figure dressed all in white. Only the Presence’s feet
glowed now, as if its steps in the night had
warmed them, and when it first spoke, the words
from its mouth fell like small clear bells, a quick
unintelligible song. The fear, awe and anguish she
felt must have been clear to the visitor, for it said
her name. Mary. And then, don’t be afraid. I am
Gabriel, and I have a special message for you
from God Himself. Even if she had tried to speak,
no words could have escaped her cold lips just then.
The angel—for surely though it wore no wings it must
be that—went on kindly: the Almighty’s favor has
 come to rest upon you Mary, for you have been
chosen to bear and give birth to a son who will not
simply be the grandson of your parents. You are
to call him Jesus, for he will be the Highest’s Son,
the chosen heir to the throne of David the Poet, David
the Warrior King. Gabriel said more. Fearful, wonderful
words that should have caused her to tremble. But
the bells were in his voice again, and it was to these
and her beloved cousin’s name…Elizabeth…a baby…,
and his parting, with God all is possible, child, she
clung to, believing. In the sudden emptiness, stillness
of the room, Adva’s voice broke the night’s final fright
upon her ringing ears, a piercing joy-song, life-song,
light-song usually reserved for welcoming the dawn.

Copyright © 2007 by Charity Gingerich.

About the Author: Charity graduated from Kent State University with a BA in English, as well as minors in writing and history in 2006. This fall (2008) she will be entering the MFA in Creative Writing program at West Virginia University where she will be specializing in poetry. Charity always welcomes any questions/suggestions about this column. Click Here to send her an email.