Wrapping up my clay Nativity again, of a January morning–
These three-decades-old figures in the story, hand-formed with the tears
Of my just-opened eyes—I muse:
After Jesus, newborn fist barely visible, which of these
Could be most important?
Probably not the thin buff cow with one horn half-broken,
Nor the small brown dog, asleep.
What of the chief shepherd, the crook of his staff missing for years,
Perennially astonished at the scene–
Joseph, strong, protective, present,
The determined scholars worshipping an infant of a foreign race,
The iridescent messenger of God?–
Or surely little Mary, her baby cuddled close.
Yet that borning Light shines to each–
To all creation, redemption
To the working folk of earth, adoption
To the good-willed, strength
To the serious seekers, the ecstasy of Truth
To the heavens, the witness of the Mystery
To the brave bearer, Love.
c Deanna Harrington Christiansen 2013 ~All Rights Reserved
From “Plantings” …see www.deannachristiansen.com to order “Plantings”