Christmas Morning

Angels wonder what it feels like
when a leaf kisses the sidewalk.

Stars pucker like infant's lips

for a smack of green earth.
Your eyes become grails
that drink from themselves.
Surely seraphs thirst
for a taste of this seeing.
They yearn for a face dark as yours.
The lonesome lord of hosts
would like very much to pitch his tent
in your cheeks,
spheres of music packed into a photon
of your silence.

Never underestimate the Small.
Now look at these scattered
ribbons of sunlight,
blue crinkled tissues of sky,
frozen grass, green tinsel,
patterned by the footprints of a cat:
December presence.
Consider that the gift
is not other than its wrapping.
Let this fallen triumph
of morning snow
settle into glistening impermanence.
Wherever melting takes you,
friend, go there.
Just to be awake is Christ.