CRECHE, by Llewellyn McKernan

The cave, with its warm space,

the tender torch light,

the straw that gleams happily, lost

in its part, and the staunch

shining star that refuses

to fall from its perch.

The shadows in corners

calmed by their own somber

splendor, the bounty of fleece

and those who care for it,

wise men foolish enough

to follow a light in the sky

to another dark country.

The baby on his surprising bed,

the mother who kneels to kiss

his cheek, the father who

sings an unknown song

in a well-known tongue.

Strange winged creatures

only those blinded by love

can see, the heady scent

of frankincense and myrrh.

The presence of the gold

that never has to glitter.

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