(Persian priest)
We found it strange the King
was more keen about a baby
than a star.
Before our journey to the birth, gifts once came
with their own requirements and obligations.
To give, really, was to ask.
Soon it was revealed our largesse
was dwarfed by a geography more expansive
than our charts. A gift no longer meant a ledger.
Afterwards I dreamt I saw a despot
licking dust, so we steered our lathered beasts
clear of the City. Sand blew
Chicago. January. Present time.
“The core of winter,” says our weatherman,
Whose forecast draws more eyes than local crime
Or something happening in Somewheristan.
A storefront theatre. A wind-chilled night.
We’re in a tiny lobby, parka-packed.
A call: “The house is open!” Polite,
We set out folding chairs from where they’re stacked.
Lights down. Lights up. Two actors: He and She.
Her voice. Then his. They whisper; we’re that near.
Who now recalls the winter? Nobody.
We’re anywhere. It’s anytime. For here,
Before sunrise
It is as if the light that is to come
had taken on a flake-like form and substance
laid itself, in silhouette, along, against,
the windward part
of every naked trunk and branch.
The ground below lies cloaked,
each blade of grass or bracken
with its glistening garment,
so that, even at the darkest hour last night,
a luminescence shone as if reflected
from whatever burns within.
And he took him by the right hand and raised him up.
—Acts 3:7
How many times have you seen this
on the football field? The hulking tackle,
after the play, reaching down
to the halfback and pulling him up
with a sure, strong grip. Every once
in a while, a player from the other team
“But what about the birds that don’t fly south?”
A boy—age six?—arms full of books—is asking.
The library is closing. We’re in line.
“Some birds don’t mind the cold,” a woman answers.
“They have warm nests. Their feathers keep them warm.”
The boy hesitates, then rejoins, “But Grandma . . .”
He hesitates again as if he’s gathered
His grandmother can’t tell him any more.
each Nativity
scene I am seen
no matter the time
of night—
joseph, My Son, and I
are always bathed
in light, no in
Light, bright white
not starlight
but in Sonlight,
although most portray
us there in the
dead of night, no
in the Life of night,
for as was so fore
-told, this
“earth’s most
prodigious night”
would bring forth the
Nativity of the
Way, the
Truth, and the
Life of My Son,
Deus De Luxe
One small deer, perfectly still, pasture barren today and cold.
Three hawks circle overhead, searching. Sudbury’s sky dull
charcoal. A lone coyote crosses leaf-filled yards. Turkeys fatten
and stroll, cautious as they forage. Fragile songs in the trees.
Winter’s whispers sough in the wind and I am listening hard,
Christmas coming as it does, nuanced steps in the darkness.
Those Wise Men of old no longer travel. The man and his wife
are coming. Their baby will arrive in the night while, all around,
Three days without news of the campaign is as good as a stiff martini before dinner,
as a long walk in the sunshine, as a long morning in bed with your sweetie.