I intended to get more Christmas-themed writing done than I have, but there's still a week (and I'm not going to pretend I don't keep rocking the Christmas vibe through January), so we'll see what happens.
For now, have a poem I just finished today. I put a couple days of work into it, and I am really, really happy with how it wrapped up. I hope you all enjoy it, and may it be whatever God wants it to be to you.
The first eyes to see God peel us from our pupa
found nothing special about the thing
sleeping in their food, a mere knot of cloth and steam.
Even as distant angels sang and fists stretched
two bundles of omen and birth, desultory lows
broke to comb his crown of curls for anything of worth.
A sheep drawled its cudded, compulsory bleats
across the cave like some semiannual due,
the murrain between its hooves moved less by the child
with his panacean kingdom
still a ghost on the clouds of his breath than by the reap
whose golden gather gave the babe a place to rest,
and the donkey thought him too small,
too cheeked with fig and down
to fit the image its ears had gleaned from angels long wont
to whisper its kind their secrets. Weighing him
against these anticipatory words, the donkey
turned back to face the unstarred sky, assuming it misheard.
But she, a year or two removed from the manger,
would understand all too well the stakes claimed
in the lowering of a star, in the child's too-pierceable flesh.
With heart a crumbling fruit and hands made cradle
and casket by a world that chews its young, she needs
no angel to tell her why the Christ was born and hung.