Boughs of trees stand black and spare
against a milk-white sky;
rain falls on a crumpled ground
where beggared leaves and broken stems
grotesquely clutch the air.
No snow creeps soft to hide the crook
of hurtful, jagged wood;
no late bird sings; the night is full
of traffic yearning up the hill;
no touch, or sound, or look
betrays the waiting hour that brings
the first day of peace.
But while men sit and grieve and plead,
over the gaunt trees comes the sound
of susurrous, burning wings.
Breaking once more earth’s ancient care,
like migratory birds,
unasked and punctual, in a flock,
the world unstable by their cries,
Christ’s angels fill the air.
Silver flows down on leaf and stone;
mud, in resplendence, shines;
the hesitant eyes, the acid smilesare seared and healed by light that burns
for everyone, alone.
Men, tired and furtive, cup their hands;
the starlight turns to wine—
and while they drink, the snow falls soft
as bread new-baked, upon the hearth
of all earth’s hungry lands.
A Song for Christmas
Sylvia Read