from the painting by N.C. Wyeth
She stands at her table
finger on the tattered page,
the way Gabriel finds Mary
in Renaissance paintings.
Who knew we could be
so lovely in a kitchen
washed by snow light?
Milk in a small glass pitcher,
eggs dreaming in a basket,
and above the woman’s pink apron,
a pinch of creamy cleavage.
Light licks the inside
of the blue ceramic bowl
she’s braced against her
belly, the better to mix
the gathered ingredients.
Who knows what Mary is reading
when the angel interrupts her?
Does her finger follow
an ancient narrative of making—
handed down mother to daughter,
spattered with secrets, sacred as scripture?
Brandywine Museum
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