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. . .

Once feeling begins to leave
An exodus is on the brink
Like some village being
Attacked and the wild flight
For survival begins in the exhaustion
Of running away and the echo
Of a voice well known calls but
In the confusion of the heart
Sounds like an enemy.
When that occurs looking back
Feels like Lot's wife looking over
Her shoulder as she turns to salt
When life lay ahead, beyond.
The only hope one may have
Is to get further ahead of that one
Caught in the throes of exile
And be at a crossroad waiting,
Ready, saying softly,  "This way.
This way."  
                     And a soft, cautious
Fear and flight leaving the eyes and
A "yes"   as the two hands
                                                join once again.

Dreams came and went last night
and I've not remembered one
though that doesn't mean they're not
lingering somewhere inside
and some sudden direction taken,
some words in some order spoken,
some silence at just the right time
may be their fulfillment.
                                           What is unknown
to me is not, however, unknown
and that's a fact long ignored:
I think I'm always doing what
I'm doing but I may be
                                          doing more.