A Poem in a Manger

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At just the right time, the poem was handed to me,
A poem clothed in bands of soft cotton, a poem resounding
between a cry and a coo upon his first sight of this world.
From his mother’s arms, quietly given for me to hold,
That poem came when I needed it most, a necessary word
of comfort, a meaningful word to a day starved for meaning,
a beautiful word to an ugly, angry age. A liberating word
to the world, to me, latched to loneliness, hurt, grief.
This fragile, resilient poem, I held him in my arms,
read his face, his eyes, his soft sounds, marveling
through tears at the holy moment. How quickly a heart revives.
This child, this perfect poem, heaven swoops straight down
down to these earthy eyes, this pining heart, these empty hands,
this restless mind, grounding me in a love I kept forgetting,
a love I kept forgetting never lets me go, resurrecting
love’s truth, making it new again, hallowing this life.
Awake, I give the poem Emmanuel back to Mary, return home,
and like her ponder – and ponder still – all of this,
ponder it all in the room of a renovated heart.



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