Christmas Morning

‘God became human so that the human could become divine.’
-St. Athanasius

I await no Second Coming

because the One who is to come

has never departed.

I think there is no Divine Birth

but the radiance in these eyes,

wet with the nectar of this moment.

This morning, God is the spaciousness

who takes my breath away, then gives it back,

filled with the whisper of amazed stars.

I think they shine because they are bewildered

and God is the light of bewilderment.

The Child of Mary is cradled in my heartbeat,

conceived in the womb of a tear.

I think this day is the birthday of Seeing.

The suckling infant is a flame on the nipple,

her milk a stream of pearls.

Surely, we too are precious droplets

stranded on a thirst,
and galaxies throng in a photon of holly.

Surely the lips of the seraph

are two dark horizons, yearning to feel

what a leaf feels kissing the sidewalk.

This morning, my eyes are grails
that drink from themselves,

then pour out the rest for God.

I think that the lonesome Lord of Hosts

would like to pitch his tent in my cheeks.

I think that the Beloved’s tongue

must pucker for a smack of nog

and angels thirst to taste the green
of my planet.

They long to behold scattered ribbons
of dawn, crinkled blue tissue of sky,

viridescent tinsel of frozen grass.

Deeply this day I consider that the gift

is not other than its wrapping.

Let morning fall, an eschaton of snow,

into its glistening impermanence.

And wherever this melting leads me,

there I go and give thanks.

O Lord of little presences, just looking
is unbearably sweet today, each creature
a shimmer of innocence, bathed
in an infancy of light.

Clustered berries iced in cups
of transparency, kittens befuddled,
gazing at their crystal footprints,

wings of scattered cherubim at sunrise

flecked on a frozen pond.

Surely, just to be awake is Christ,
the only sin not noticing,
washed away this morning
by wonder. Surely, there is only
one commandment: Choose beauty.

Can't you see, little pilgrim,
resting in your bed of hay,

laying your face in the mute
holy warmth of an animal's fur,
that this breath encircles multitudes?
That Love is only divided
into I and Thou for a moment,
to behold itself in the manger
under your own breastbone,
the child who is born each morning
never one moment old!

 

Mural of Christ Child by Fra Angelic, San Marco, Milan