prologue:

i see the footprint
here, placed to follow
into

the dwelling of the
Maker of outside
and beyond,

not of mortar and joist.
a craftsman's eye
reveals to me

the love of the labor,
the infinite plan
for each small part.

i am small before the story
a single tiny piece
beloved as if no other.

*
waiting for the morning star in this dark place,
as from the window a lamp shines.
they wait through long night,
by it, to be first to see morning star.

as night lifts cold edged,
an old softness returns unseen settling like dust.
lowing moan from witness to a truth born anew
in a stable in bethlehem.

did thunder roll that evening
herald to the event, or was it
silent, just a wind to mix
the smell of fodder and animal and human birth.

was there simple bread and wine
to feed hungry man and mother.
give to the provision of her *******, food to
a helpless salvation.

cold then morning sky returned,
and those that knew came
to see.  saw little more than
a point of growing life,
a light at the end of a long night.

*
the path by which he went is
clay and brick and worn by feet uncounted.
to go that way now is slow work,
for the atmosphere is filled with the cowering of light,
the walls of surrounding buildings covered in dust, defeated.

thin voices rise from the market,
the odors of food and waste and body,
each language foreign as all others,
i would trade my wages to step where god descended thrice,
once of honor
once in body
once to walk in sun bright garden
pray the night,  and retire, leaving us grateful and confused.

forgive me my desire to feel smooth stone
still warm from the day's sun and warm in memory of his foot fall here.
i know what i must and will know,
standing beside him, my face wet with his bleeding.