What would you have me know?

They are knocking on the door, and I -

ensconced with book, or screen, or work, or cat,

or any of these -

resist answering.

I resist rising,

"What now?" on my lips

rather than "Welcome."

But rise I do.

On the doorstep, momentarily

sheltered from wind and rain

they gesture, shimmering, and

I prepare my polite face and voice

to fend off another well-meaning tract

about The End of Days.

I say "Thanks, but . . ." and trail off.

That's not what this is, or who they are.

My lips, throat and breath, of their own accord

form and utter the words

"What would you have me know?"

They say "Now is the Time."

They say "It has always been the time."

"For what?" I ask, trembling, resisting, surrendering to

the trembling and resisting.

"We are wholly available," they say.

"Now is the time," they say,

"to show up."