The Incarnation

Behold the night sky this Christmas morning.

Behold the heavens and the silent night
of galaxies, stars, and planets beyond,
embedded in the dark of the cosmos.

Behold the gargantuan gods of old,
those mummified constellations of myth
frozen so brightly in play, love and war.

Behold the sciences, philosophy,
mathematics, and all theology.

Behold your own heart. Reflect upon its
vast purgatorial seas of hope, pain,
passion, loss, and unrequited desire.

The only sounds are the stampeding ghosts
of raw winter wind, the mournful rocking
and muted wooden murmuring of trees.
Each shivering limb mocks my loneliness.

I am an atom, a mere iota,
an infinitessmal of space-time,
journeying through the trough of an abyss.

Yet I reject the void. It is not my end.
It was this way, on the road for Joseph,
the shepherds, and the magi of Zoroastor.

But who am I? What am I? Why am I?
The Virgin embraces and consoles me
against my pitiful insignificance.
And behold, this night I am born again.