Out of a Fog

Sometimes
out of a fog
of fine snow
comes a sapling tree—
we watch
and wait
for the ornament
of its arms
that never comes.
It is not the expected gift
or desired adornment,
but a surprise
that arrives
as others shop or celebrate
afield—
it comes as
a peace
a oneness
a naked holiness
that dawns

—egh

I sometimes wonder if trying to plumb the depths of metaphors will leave some readers wondering just where the Christmas is in the Christmas poem.  But I think the Incarnation has an aspect of “in cognito,” especially for the birth-in-the-stable story.  I think the artists have it wrong; there are no singing hosts of angels, no worshippers, no halo except perhaps the tired parents who are aglow with their first child.  So I see so much epiphany in the fledging tree in a snow fog.  And I ache for that clarity.


© Copyright 2006, E. G. Happ, All Rights Reserved.

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