by Russell Rowland
Candles will be there at my windows, as late as certain shepherds kept watch over their flocks by night. No angels will come. They came then: the words of their song were written down for us. We could sing them if we had the tune, though Handel, no angel, did another.
We, too, have beheld gloria in excelsis— double rainbows, twice Noah’s hope; eclipses of narcissistic moon and sun; heaven’s drapery, the Aurora Borealis. None of it angelic, even supernatural, God neither in earthquake nor in fire. Few now listen for the still small voice.
Rush-hour traffic and abutters observe my nine tapers, but I am not expecting traffic to slow, good neighbor to bring fruitcake. Mine search in the darkness for the eyes of one lost, returning Son: to guide him home. I was missing him so much, I tore down my bigger barns.
Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His latest poetry book, Wooden Nutmegs, is available from Encircle Publications.
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