There had to be a star involved,
stars have ever had that two-edged tendency
toward portending, if given half a chance.
Last evening’s light-strewn firmament,
spread wide above my own quotidian
bed time walking with the dogs,
reminded me what day it was about to be.
“Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve Eve,”
as I informed my patient children years ago,
still do whenever I get the opportunity.
Some find the viewing of our spangled universe
leaves them lost, and at the edge of fright,
crushed beneath those swirling magnitudes.
For myself, after almost seventy Decembers
gazing upward into darkly frosted skies,
there remains a certain charged delight,
a spark that travels tight along the spine,
less apprehension than anticipation,
a persistent bright suspicion
that such far-flung loveliness bears more
than dust toward a waiting manger.
