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.