Visitation

She stands
on tip toe,
in a clasp of trees,
hair neatly plaited, 
hands folded,
her face pushed forward
into mine as if
I was the voice,
I was the spirit
rehearsing the words
for those straining ears,
'Chosen among women'.
But not me, 
oh no little Mary,
not me;
remain in stasis,
not speaking, not hearing, 
blessed another day.