Llewellyn McKernan

The stable, with its warm

space, the tender

torch light, the straw

that gleams happily, lost

in its part, and the staunch

shiny star that refuses

to fall from its perch.

The shadows in

corners, calmed by their

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’s

kiss, the father’s

caress, serene winged

creatures (only those blinded by

love can see) who sing

a new song

with angelic tones, and

everywhere —

The sacred scent

of myrrh and frankincense.

The presence of the real

gold that never has

to glitter.