Virgin In The Meadow

I thought I saw the Virgin in a tree.
Perched halfway up in prayer and tunica,
Head bowed, she balanced on the thick stem of a branch
Where the verdure was ample and lush.

Beneath her mantle was a woad-blue, not quite brown,
Her face resting in light shadow.
The tree at the end of the vast meadow stood totally still,
Stark and skeletal in late May.

A field of daffodils lay between us,
And beyond, the deep furrows of barley.
I looked again and still I could not make out the tree,
But only the Virgin, half-standing peacefully.

What did this mean, by nature’s grace?
The purity of nature’s healing made evident.
I gripped the rosary around my neck:
Qui ad te confugimus.

Through the meadow and up into the branches,
Your statue is but an apparition –
It passes the moment I move.