This year, no bells or ribbons.
Only moss, soft, sedate on the
North side.
Small twigs cling, loath
to give way their place
on the wreath. Though they
bend in circular obeisance to
the Season, their few red berries
do not boast or beckon.
This year, paradox has its say.
The parade is liminal, sedate.
A muted miracle ensues, nubbing
itself into being beneath its mossy
sac.
A red bird heralds this birth,
marking its true nature. Its cardinal
peak glorifies its staid, seminal journey.
A velvet tone prevails, soft, like snow.
Tangled undergrowth guards the womb.
Guided by the Chord, the Star glows and
takes its place on the darkened stage.
Pines bow, implicitly understanding this
procession, this furled sleep of spirit and
matter. This birth is a promise, a line of
dawn in the dark, desert sky.
Distant fields offer earthy praise.
The Nile flows its consent.
Animal and insect scratch their prayer
in unison with churning nebulae.
Listen. Listen.
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