Said the Angel to Mary:
God would like a Word with you.
She thought a conversation
and so said yes.
But the Word became flesh
and never stopped talking
until an unpleasant death
stole away his breath.
Then Mary, the empty nester,
took up watercolours,
and in the sunset years of life
learned to smuggle stretches of sky
onto little canvasses,
which old Joe roughly framed
in his dusty workshop
that sighed out turpentine
whenever he opened the door.