Hollow.
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.
Let’s again
anticipate the coming.
Let’s again
recount the carols.

—–

But my eyes see dried pine needles.
Deflated.
Popcorn kernels.
An ache.

“Remember” I hear someone whisper…
Remember the candles,
the continual lighting,
the light.

The star,
yes, the blazing burning star.
The hay.
The thirteen year old girl.

Flesh.
Emmanuel.
Alive.

—–

I sit.  I remember.
And I hold the great story.
I hold…

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.

-MCS