Cold Advent

It was sufficient for us
To be the seekers.
A new stellar sign
Was all we needed
To spur our pilgrimage
Through barren wildness,
Blistering winds, stinging nights,
With only our parchments
And our intellect
To bolster our certainty.
We did not need
The heavens to burst open,
Like those simple shepherds
Who, half-asleep on the job,
Wiped the sand from their eyes
And found the glory of God
Ripping open the sky.
Who had angels’ wings
And harps of gold
And Be Not Afraids
And Good Tidings of Great Joy
And all the style and spectacle
Of heavenly holiness
In one giant pageant.
Of course they got up
And did as they were told.
But for months all we had
Was a pinhole in the sky,
A nick, a puncture
In the darkness.
And when we reached the Babe
In that tomblike stable
It was enough to see Him
To know we were right.
We left with our dignity in tact,
Requiring no reward,
No unearthly visions
Of celestial upheaval
To inspire us
Or cling to
Long after
When the sky was resealed
As tight as a drum.
--Erin Davis