poetry

scriven starlight

they gathered round the firelight

speaking in hushed reverence

of the glorious weaver of galaxies

bearded men and serious scholars

steeped in religious mysteries

masters of divinities

and i? a lowly scribe listening

on the outskirts of conversation

soaking up in silence

the recounted wisdom of centuries

then there he was in their midst

little long-fingered man

seven-days-new to the earth

the womb-rind still clinging

to his reddened skin

was it such a child they saw

those wise wanderers from the east?

such a helpless, fragile thing

beautiful and bawling

at his mother’s breast

divinity mastering humanity

the Infinite in-fleshed and infant

the fullness of God made miniature man

before his frailty they fell face-down

awestruck at his awesome humility

they worshiped, wondering

at the mysteries transcribed

in starlight. gold they gave

incense in smoking censers swinging

and myrrh, making magnificent

the macabre day of death

whose shed blood would betoken

the once far-off brought near

the divine masterfully made clear

to the lowly lost. what more was mine

to give to this spinner of suns?

naught but what he’d given me —

so i return my words to thee.

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