(Twelfth Century Armenian Miniature)
Turning her body away from the angel she almost closes her book. One hand holds her collar tightly to her throat . Part reluctant, part afraid, she cannot help looking at the branch in the angel’s hand about to bloom, flowering with the word made flesh, mystery made truth, and God made ours, blossoming as she will with the seasons that will never be the same, as every woman knows.
from Songs of Bread, Songs of Salt, Ashod Press