Visions broke through at the strangest times.

When you were buying groceries, Jesus

appeared next to you at the meat counter.

When you were at a meeting, the coffee

in your cup turned to blood. Angels visited

you in the bathroom. Things like that.

But gradually—or was it suddenly?—

the visions ceased.


You returned to a holy place, a place

of first loves, of moonlight and water

and stones, where trees once breathed

redemption, where fireflies flickered

immortality,  where bells rang at midnight,

and though it was still pleasant,

nothing glittered through the veil.

Indeed, the veil itself was gone.


In the morning, you sit on the front porch

in your green chair to drink your coffee

and listen to the birds, or

you walk in the woods for a long time

by yourself, or you spend an afternoon

cleaning the kitchen, and nothing happens

but the sunrise and the birdsong, the green leaves,

the scent of rosemary on the windowsill.

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