I wait for the Messiah
as if He were an elf peeping through the window,
watching to see if I am naughty or nice.
My stocking is hung,
waiting for my just deserts,
or (crossing my fingers) just desserts,
knowing that some days I have worked to please,
and some days I have worked to hide.
But always I have worked.
Like a shepherd on the hill,
accustomed to coarse man jokes,
urges, dung, wolves, and night,
I have worn my labor across the fields.
And I have worn my labor across books,
parsing out the sky of the East,
measuring philosophies and prophecies,
in the temples of the learned.
Unto you a Child is born!
Unto you a Son is given!
A womb is so poetic a place,
a vessel of vessels.
In a flutter of little wings,
my soul magnifies the Lord.
For favor implants freely
without a union of flesh.
Why are you so favored,
that the Lord should come to you?
Followers of rules
and followers of Leonard Cohen.
Christ the Savior is born,
with a blast
and with a whisper.
Blessed are you who believe
that the Lord will fulfill his promises to you.