Eternal In Infancy

Wise men see the child
is newly born and taught.
Perhaps by you and I,
perhaps not. His hand

does not sustain
us as it ought, we like
to say. But it will
find a way. Remember

in your kingdom, one
may plead—and
shortly he appears
asleep and weak, still

some years before
he is able to speak.

Tree

Leaves leave,
but seeds remain
seen. They germinate
and blossom, often
quite a distance
from the declining tree
that faced the wind
and tossed them. One
may conceive of many
kinds of seed it still extends
to those who breathe air
its synthesis of light
once cleansed and any
who share its shade
or climb its height,
which, through its line
of descendants, reaches
endlessly. In these ways
even grief is wreathed
with green. Branches
do not terminate
as such—not here,
not much. Years nest
in them like finches,
whatever their final
upward flight
might ordain
or mean.

Living Nativity

The cattle have been lowing incessantly since parts were assigned.
The shepherds, after spilling their first hot chocolates, keep watch over their frocks.
Joseph strokes the beard he grew himself but had to augment with marker.
The angels keep fixing their haloes, which can’t seem to stay up.
The wise men, who were acting out, have been separated.
One of them (frankincense) has basketball practice; his gift sits unattended.

The baby Jesus got colicky and had to be replaced.
The Virgin makes do with a leftover loaf,
Swaddling it close to hide its facelessness,
And the rest lick their chops as they think of that bread
Broken for us all on this cold winter night
In which the light of some new star,
Having traveled for ages, may be reaching us.

Lost Childhood Sketch

Something out of myth,
this strange creature
craning its neck to see
how it sprawls on the page.

Its mouth lacks teeth
and proportion: an “O”
stamped loosely on its face,
overlapping the eyes.

Tottering precariously
on one of many feet,
prepared to topple
if not mid-leap.

Meandering digitless
hands—unsure
what to hold, or how.
The sheet is mostly blank.

Not that this concerns
the creature—its tail
would wag, I’m sure,
but for static image,

as it enters that single hut
which is nowhere near
the right size or perspective,
perched as it is on the horizon.

Bass Fiddle

"I love you," said

through a riddle:

of delicate shape,

but un-little.

It is the songbird's

king-size cousin

who ought to sing

but can't and doesn't,

a ponderous bird whom

song won't stand to teach.

Its throat must reach

for notes like thoughts

for speech.  Despite

oneself, one stays

to simple parts.

To play them

the unlikeliest

of arts.

Waiting Room (revised)

Someone's little girl

With ears bandaged tight.

A lady blowing her brains out

Through her nostrils

Due to who-knows-what.

An old man shuffles to the corner

With a hacking cough.

The crease of his pant leg

Traces the crisp line

Of an obsolete prosthesis.

A boy with two black eyes

And zero parents quietly tears apart

A many-colored model of the heart,

Complete with intricate diagrams

And many terms in Latin.

You had only scheduled a checkup,

But the man with a swollen lip

And crutches is eyeing you

Like a long-lost brother.

"Be right as rain," he murmurs.

The moths orbiting the light fixture

In crazy spirals—they, likewise,

Sympathize with inchworms below,

With those measuring floor tiles.

There are differing types of constraint.

violin screech

       violin screech

(I have her this week)—

       daughter practicing our song