Christmas eve
Clouds reflecting light indistinct
from the setting sun or rising moon
cannot be said and if memory serves
(not usually the case) there
is no internal source in that wispy heaven.
And God posed with chalice on some
high-off place, a throne or golden chariot
that fires like blossoms as daylight breaks,
a show, in mime, where humility is placed.
Time counted in the falling of the star
as arbitrary as a night descending,
we don’t mark these creased sheets
spreading with multicolored flourishes.
Humanity, so rich in part, to reduce
to rubble our gathering wishes,
frail the meager uses of
that keyboard blasting pipes through fissures,
figuring of the heart.
LynnChakoian, January 6, 2012
