It happens sometimes
That God sends his angel
Gliding down into the night
To deposit in our arms a child,
And the angel says
Your son speaks a rare language.
He speaks to us in Heaven every day,
With his eyes mostly and a few words.

He is yours because he is the blossom
Of a flower that blooms once
In a thousand years, and you heard
That blossom drop in a brook
Swollen by a rainstorm
Deep in the mountains.

You made yourself as small as an elf,
And built a boat of leaves
And caulked it with resins.
With the blossom on board
You steered with an oar made of a twig
And glued to it a seed pod.
You steered around sharp rocks
And carried your boat around waterfalls.

The journey is very long,
And you pray God to keep breath in you
Till you reach a sheltered sea.
You will beach the boat on an island
That only you know of.
Your son will build a house of timber and stone,
With a wide hearth to bake flatbread
And fish from his nets.
You will sing ever so softly to him,
And his gift to you will be his quiet gaze,
Which is your holy book
Whose meaning only you can read.

March 10th, 2010