Joy, the winged common stock
of heralds.
Aloft, the vast bell-tone
of Presence on snow-powdered hills.
To possess in common, joy,
the strength that, singing,
moves the shepherds' hungry hearts closer
to light
all along the horizon, star-lit.
Joy invigorating as love.
The leap of promise as the shepherds follow,
sheep trailing, no doubt anxious
at the journey, the community of angels
who carol until those who come after
feel their hearts fill ungainly as grain sacks
with joy.
The harsh ground is frozen, the star a flare.
Whatever it leads to, the men have searched for
all the days of their lives.
Joy is a blaze now.
The milky shine of the star from sheep's eyes.
The movement of beasts, their mild breath.
Ewes' ears flap. The shepherds cherish each
heavy curl on their flocks' backs,
the stony ridges of road beneath feet & hooves
& always, always, the pull of light, white
splitting darkness so the shepherds will never
quite believe in black again.
Even as old men, at some joyous level they will follow
that star in hope.
