It is Christmas.   And as always,  inside
Is where the day occurs
Though most paintings we see
Have the child being worshipped
In the evening.  . . perhaps the time
When true worship arrives.
The gifts but shadows,  shades
Of the gift never fully seen but not
Less for its invisible wholeness,
Holiness.
                 By chance -- or was it?--
I turned to look outside and saw a hawk
In, on the air and thought the Holy
Ghost is more than a dove
And watched it fly away as I then
Turned my gaze to the tree and gifts,
Glancing to the manger inside,
The voices of Angels, shepherds,
And Magi. . . the cry seeking Mary's breast. . .