The constant angel

Stars shine their patent leather shoes,
light their little silver lanterns.
Angels put on their robes,
go over that tricky part one more time.
Mary sits on the donkey,
the donkey plods along, Joseph beside her.
Neither one tries the impossibility of words.
Wayside inn fills up, people
coming from a long way to fill it up.
A manger lies ready, open,
flies buzzing though its empty spaces,
while the dusty light settles.
The suns sets. The night begins to hush.
Shepherds, of course, are just out in their field,
nothing different, same as always.

You never get to see the gathering angels,
the light swelling just before it bursts forth.
You never know which manger will receive,
which night will shine, which moment
will give way to glory. If you did,
you’d miss all the rest.
Anyway, the one magnificent chorus
is not what changes you, but the gentle light
that seeps through everything, the quiet voice
humming as you sweep the floor,
check the oven, light the candle, open the door.





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Copyright © 2009
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
unfoldinglight@hotmail.com