Plating the Bread of Life {a #poem}

Bed askew with straw, rummaged      

leftovers of the menageries’ last meal.

A stone space quarried like the heart of a 

small ark, opening just enough 

to cradle the straw.

The stall, open planks no match for the midnight 

chill, gaps lasering light, streaming in on stone.

Mother draped in simple cloth, teenaged

hands trembling as she lays her infant 

in the place of the animals’ meal.

Suckling sounds as He stares, still, into the sky 

where the host of Heaven lift voices 

through the spheres

Announcing His presentation, 

which, as the young father recalls, 

would at last be everything.

Merry Christmas, friends.

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