A warm December rain relieves
the unattended silent night,
in the withered garden weaves
its carpet of reflected light.
All our distant instruments
describe a wilderness of sky,
another desert testament,
a lunar hermit’s arctic cry.
Yet night is shivering on the lawns,
splashed in scintillating shards,
as light older than the sun
relaxes with us in our yards.
The stars we follow never seem
to take us where we want to go;
our camels start for Bethlehem,
deliver us to Buffalo,
in which inclement weather we
discover just enough to stay,
as rumors of nativity
are lost behind the frozen gray,
and winter travel’s such a danger
that we settle to await the thaw,
and stumble on a little stranger
lying in the golden straw.
5 comments:
Gorgeous John.
Clever and brilliantly done.
I particularly loved these lines:
Yet night is shivering on the lawns,
splashed in scintillating shards,
as light older than the sun
relaxes with us in our yards.
You've probably got a dozen already, John, but I've just awarded you a Roar for Powerful Words. It fits your poetry beautifully.
I was just introduced to William Stafford's work, over at Frozen Toothpaste, and it puts me in mind of your poetry.
You are helping me grow.
This is a great take on the nativity. The opening lines set the tone perfectly drawing the reader in immediately. Great craftsmanship as ever and tenderly rendered. Your site remains as ever a treasure.
Hope you have a good Christmas,
Kind regards,
Ario
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