Wings rustle in the Advent night
of Jesus’ coming.
The Angels are restless.
They look calm because that is there job-
all serene and quiet.
But you can tell they are
all nearly bursting from their
white robes with excitement
that He would go to Them.
Their blue wings quiver
like a lover’s thigh.
How could this be?
How could He take on the form
of a small, fleshy baby?
How could the ruler
of a cosmos become
a child with poopy pants
and a small smile?
You can tell the angels
are nearly busting their corsets;
and that those gently
folded hands
with those long,
delicate fingers
are scratching at the
white satin in sheer wonder
at this thing about to happen.
A Savior is coming.
Try to look elegant.
Try to look calm.
The Savior careens towards us
like a comet from the Trinity’s heart,
blazing a trail of freedoms.
There is a blue feather over there
near that stable door.
How did that feather get there?
You can see it in the hay
if you let the light from that star
hit it just right.
