Another Christmas sends its stubborn ray
through Advent's violet dysphoria
to prey on mindless children of the day
who seem to need such therapy if but
to coax December's hidden sun away
from shrouded skies, and into shopworn hearts.
The carols sound a little more in tune
when Stephen stands unstoned, the Innocents
still suckle at the breast,
the Lord asleep within the womb,
and if the world lies not in solemn stillness,
dreaming of the birth that launched Epiphany
within those twelve tumultous days,
then wonder, wailing
and the restless quest of Eastern kings
evoke us all—and hollow alleluias ring.
~
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