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.