The Day After Christmas

I want to worship

the next baby I see.

I don't care whether

it’s a girl or a boy,

brought forth in a stable 

or a subway station, 

rich or poor, amber, rose, 

or burnt umber.

I don't care any more

whether it’s your baby or mine,

or whether the mystery

is human or divine.

I just want to worship

the newborn.

I am just so hungry

for the bread of original innocence,

the fallen star of her face

gazing up at me.

I want to bow down and press

her butterscotch soles

to my forehead.

I want to give her the gift

of my golden laughter,

the frankincense of this breath,

myrrh that oozes from my

broken heart, I am just so

hungry to hear the suck of milk

from a nipple this morning,

the sound that makes

any morning holy.

I'd rather not wait for moons

and planets to align.

I'd rather not wait for the Messiah.

How many mornings have I

already missed her

looking for someone else?

I don't care any more

whether the mystery

is human or divine.

Just let me worship

the next baby I see.

Photo: my daughter Abigail, which in Hebrew means
"My Father's Joy."