Bells

The bell of St. Deiniol's tells me,

as if I didn't know,

that I'm awake at three in the morning.

This old building whispers,

and I feel the hum of someone, a man I feel certain,

who is asleep in a nearby room.

I check my pulse for anxiety, obsession,

old pals, who are not pestering me in this night.

I rest, wide-eyed in sweet intimacy with those I love,

no matter that an entire ocean divides us.

I sense the shifting infant in my daughter's womb

and can hold on my hand and to my cheek 

my sister's new grief

and the aches of my husband's chores.

And the bell of St. Deiniol's assures me

that I am still awake at four,

and that my neighbor is still snoring

and that a sip of water was not what I needed to put me back to sleep.

The bed is cozy,

warm in a chilly room,

and I know, with the certainty of peace,

that in the sea of Alaska,

where I would never have gone without my love,

the great whales are rising in the pale winter sun for breath,

and that in Florence, where I slept last week,

the bells of Giotto are ringing their different hour,

and that at the top of the steps of the monastery 

Angelico's Gabriel whispers the question to Mary

and waits, with God himself and all creation,

to hear her answer.