by Chris Fahy
On a lawn, life-sized, well lit,
The figures of the Nativity bow
Before the Christ-child,
Kings and shepherds crouching,
Mary ascendant over all--
Fulfillment of the Virgin,
Her son, her hour.
I pass a house I have passed
A thousand times before,
And notice for the first time,
A faded Mary placed between two bushes,
Spreading out her palms,
Presiding over garden, peonies and roses,
A mother blessing all fecundity,
A simple Mary, a singular plot
Of land. And I think of all mothers,
My own in particular, pulling weeds at dusk,
Picking raspberries, watering the flowers,
Simple like Mary, loving beauty—
I am the fruit of her womb.
Oh, to live a life that’s hidden,
Secluded bower, waiting for a
Seed that blooms into a secret life—
Male and female we await,
Hoping to be full of grace,
A gift unearned, our sins forgiven,
We are Mary, bearing Christ.