At First

                    At First                12/19/94

At first, there was no Christmas Day;
No green tree cut short and covered with the artifacts of our hands
No gifts or indulgences
No twinkling lights
No stockings filled with either diamonds or coal.
There was just a barn
And a young woman, caught in her most vulnerable moment,
Protected by the presence
Of the one who loved her--
And this swaddling, this tiny mite of a babe

Oh, Lord.
None of it means anything
Aside from the portent of the birth of the King:
The purpose for which you came
Was not for trees, or Days, or Mass, or even wise men
But only for the blood on the lintels.
At last, there is your kingly gift, 
Which I could never match,
and never refuse
 
How can I forget now, what it was at first?
With what indulgences would I console myself?

Look,
I shall leave off the Mass
And forsake the tree covered with artifacts
Give the indulgences away
Put the stockings back on my feet, and
Like the shepherds who wandered into the clamoring city
And found the barn,
There kneel in the dirt and gaze in awe,
Because the day itself portends
Such an end of God
That neither tree nor sky could contain it.