On the True Day of Christmas

On the true day of Christmas my third
Love gave to me the morning sun, the
Moon, the gift of standing and sitting.
Silent eyes breathed mysteries, one to

Another, and sounds became hard things,
Strange things. Open wounds refused to heal,
But rosebushes and bluer shrubs sprang
Up to sing the old, steady cadence.

My open gift of strange, bluer wounds
Became the Christmas morning moon. And
Silent shrubs, the true eyes of open
Mysteries, breathed love to heal me. To

Steady another sun. To sing the
Rosebush moon and breath old things, standing
And becoming, silent and true, the
Third Christmas gift, the cadence of love.


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