Sightings of the Blessed Virgin
There, placed among the perennials in the garden, she stands
in her blue and white robes.
Over there, too, in the large birdbath. Or is it a fountain?
She’s below the porch, next to the steps, tilting
precariously.
She’s in the flower bed with a duck and a rabbit, like St.
Francis would be.
Of course she’s inside the church, where some said she cried
real tears once.
She’s usually fleshy pink, but at Chartres Cathedral she’s
black.
Every once in a while you’ll see her on the dashboard of a
car.
In Mexico she’s just about everywhere you go.
She’s in a stone niche on a building facade in Italy or
Belgium, maybe both.
She’s the centerpiece of a small home altar, surrounded by
candlelight.
She’s in my garden, the gift of a former neighbor, who hoped
we would take good care of her.
Society doesn’t have much interest in virgins these days.
But all evidence is she did her job well—and with grace.
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