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  • Alana Speth


by Alana Speth

In the church, carols —

even the hymns dressed up.

Candles, like an offering, down the pews.

Outside, the night

is cold. There are no stars. The sky has chosen

snow. In Bethlehem, a star

or many. And all that walking – first

Mary and Joseph and a mule,

gift-bearing strangers. The sheep, even, we suppose. Trying,

all of them, to reach the stable.

We move through this month

of ribbons, glitters, sugared fruits. She moved

through nine, lonely but for the growing.

After all the plans, at last the travel home.

Together in the final silent hour

we are waiting for the Light.

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