Sons of The Morning
Because it’s Advent…
in the arch of heaven
stand above the day.
The Golden sun,
on cold, white snow.
The waning moon,
Whispering platitudes to pallid clouds.
And one more.
The Morning Star, waxing at night, drawing the Magi.
The Redeemer, come a second time, walks through orange dawn.
He grants benediction, pierced, torn hands laid on a refugee.
‘Your fellow man,’ whispered in command.
And I? Stooping,
offering kindness. I feel the wondrous
star-light on my back.