Wednesday, December 23, 2009


The presents are wrapped and my belly’s still empty,

inconceivable. I watch, in my memory or hope, two mothers

impossibly pregnant, two mothers constant in duty,

called to grace. All mothers bear children who will someday

die. Meanwhile and after, there is life: the fig and the vine,

the foxes and the rose, the hart and birdsong. Young

bodies leaping. Let us dance around the tree and tie

doves and apples to its branches, weave promises and wishes

between needles. Let our memory serve so that Christmas

assures us death is as impermanent as the nightsky.