Your shiny brass gears attract my full attention
as they whir their Sirenic melody,
calling me to an ethereal place
where I am loosed from this daily drudgery.

I do so admire your meticulous maker,
that genius engineer of extraordinary vision,
whose bank account grows quickly, logarithmically,
click by click, click, click.

As the years pass,  I see how your love for me grows,
your sharp mind and fleshless arm carefully,
completing that common work,
in which I once took mistaken pride.

Thank you for treating me with such abundant care,
crediting my account with not just my keep,
but enough to always be sedately entertained,
giving me the choice to do absolutely nothing.

She was a young woman,
from a world of
chaos.

But she tried to hide
that chaos behind her
smile.

At first she could hear
my crying in the
crib.

But by the time I
talked her world was
silent.

She would watch my lips
while I said my
prayers.

Records played in her head
and we would often
dance.

She taught me old lyrics
which we sang off
key.

Although her world was silent,
she made my world
loud.

Wipe away your tears.
God is in the Manger and,
Dietrich is your star.

“When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising until it stopped over the place where the child was.”

-Matthew 2:9

Not a rock
carved smooth ovate
immutable in ossified intent

but an egg
quiescent peacock hues
hatching in YOUR imagination

I sit alone by
our open
window.

With eyes shut, I feel
a slight breeze
come in.

It’s nearly silent
out there now,
so still.

I sense a fey chill
as a cloud
passes.

Drops begin to fall
leaving a
strange scent.

I fear that one might
splash into
our home.

So I close the sash
to shut out
the world.

Again closing my eyes,
I pray for
mercy.

In sweat and blood they birthed the stones.
Their backs bent in a dimly lit choreography,  
they strained to hoist the ashlars into place.
Thirty-six years in a most sacred guild,
they each apprenticed the other.

Their aging bodies lust for sleep,
but it runs from them into the cold night.
Lying there, limbs entwined for warmth,
their calloused fingers touch scars,
which mark the years on their rounding frames.

They remember the works of their labors.
The six structures on which they’ve toiled.
Their six children raised with hope.
The six cathedrals in whom they pray,
both their memories and Christ will dwell.