on
that starry starry
silent night
in
His stone cold
manger pondering
just what Is It
God hath wrought
in that slightly more
than a pound
of flesh, or so
about to be
some day, soon
in a couple weeks
or so
to feel
the knife’s slice . . .
as if some
sacrificial lamb
He will sometime be.
but til then, on
this bleak midwinter
night in the silence of
His Mother’s smile
I see Him there
enwrapped as if
some Handful of clay
created “how” . . .
but for now, cradled
in a swaddling
of Flesh.
