In the short days, long, cold winter
nights the urge for change turns
deep inside. Some old story
starts to be told of hope.
Some woman, barely more
than a girl, some man old enough
to be her father wed in the wedlock
of the divine: she pregnant
with unknown meaning. . .
A man, a woman, a child
unborn and a perilous journey
across land, against law
and custom. Lodged, they sleep
with the warmth of animals. Some
star, unseen before, guides Magi
and shepherds to a manger.
A child, a son is born confirming
the forgotten birthright
of the divinely-human. Then
dreams and warnings, the flight
into the unknown, the killing
of the innocents.
Our desire is to see the young-bride,
the father who is not the father,
the child arrive safely in exile.
In the short days, long, cold nights
of winter, this story arrives
and we are pleased and troubled,
put at ease and dis-ease
at how the story came to be
and what it means.
-Byron Hoot
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