The womb… empty.
What did his dear mother feel on the day after?
Let’s go back a few days I beg.
Start the month over.
anticipate the coming.
recount the carols.
But my eyes see dried pine needles.
“Remember” I hear someone whisper…
Remember the candles,
the continual lighting,
yes, the blazing burning star.
The thirteen year old girl.
I sit. I remember.
And I hold the great story.
The broken perfume bottle.
The human tears he shed.
The torn curtain.
The missing boulder.
I feel…I touch it.
I take hold of it and breathe it in.
I welcome in the womb these pieces.
These ‘already’ and these ‘not yet’.
I try to welcome in the day after.
The weeks after.
Journeying with the wise men.
Sleepy lids fighting,
waiting for the brilliant dawn to finally come.