There in the Annuciation she is preserved as in
a jeweled box with lilies, a dove of discreet
geometric glory in a radial symmetry above her,
the vanishing point precisely configured
beyond the angel, touching down in a Tuscan town.

Now she is at the bus stop, chewing a fingernail,
glancing at her phone as the bus rolls up,
all compressed air and scrolling LEDs.
The doors hiss open, the cool air drapes
like a shawl around her shoulders.

She has a rolling pack, chooses a window seat,
gazes as the streets turn into lanes, fields, then
forests, cliffs of fall and gorges, night slipping down
the flanks of mountains, blades of dawn up over the
plains, to a cattle gate and a house far up the drive.

The bus will rumble off, dust feathering away.
She will turn to walk, her heart quickening.
There will be a figure waving, then running,
graying hair and parchment skin,
a woman exultant, a leap of joy within her womb.