A shadow cast by something invisible
falls on the white cover of a book
lying on my table, untraceable
shade twisting faintly upwards
like smoke . . . but beyond the window
there is nothing, just this unseen
thing rising between me and the light
of the morning sun coming in
strong as a messenger from God,
like the shadow of St. Raphael
as he used to stand unseeable
by the dazzling waters of Bethesda,
and I look away to find everything else
has suddenly dimmed.
Perhaps
it was only shades of summer heat
rising off the pavers, and not
an Angel of the Lord, but for the life
of me I cannot see a single reason
why it couldn’t have been both.
—J.C. Scharl
