Carols – Marjorie Mir
The conjured images are changeless
In the “little town,” windows are lit
beneath slanted roofs,
dark streets lined with bare-limbed trees,
above them, a clear midnight sky,
scissored stars, Orion’s belt.
The angels’ breath is visible.
All Faithful leave bootprints
as they come.
And the Family huddled and homeless
in their shed,
they, too, must share our Northern winter.
Not to trouble them with cold,
only to say, this is what we know
and where we are.
You are welcome to come in.