Before her body grew heavy, it grew light.
She moved with a new grace; her ears still rang
with the clamor of her terrible messenger’s song;
and when she closed herself for sleep at night
that splendor echoed in her shuttered eyes.
This Joseph knew, who saw her day by day
draw from him as a stone drops down a well;
then saw himself, gesticulating, small,
reflected in the mirrors of her eyes
as in well-water when its ripples die.
And Joseph knew she stood in a bright room
with but one other, and a door between.
How could he understand? He held his peace.
And peace grew still in Mary’s quickened womb–
an alien light moved sometimes in her eyes.
–Tim Reynolds in Ryoanji, 1964