A Poetic Reflection at Christmas

December 25

by Christine Perrin
From the book: Bright Mirror


On this Morning of your birth

on the edge of a North American winter


in the blue reluctant light of dawn,

in the silence of this room


I want to make you a song,

though a city of songs have already been made


in tongues of fish and grass and blood.

It's pathetic to have this desire


and the cloud of witnesses and so many words,

and still have to ask for my lips to be opened.


I am like my father at Handel's Messiah,

singing the arias in the audience-


he querulous voice in my ear beneath

the fluent surface of the soloists-


not only the tenor part, but alto, soprano!

An impure work, but from, his own belly, lungs, throat.

Be the first to comment

All comments are moderated before being published