3rd Day of Christmas/December 27

I hold my glass up to the fire’s blaze. Through
thick cut crystal the cardinal liquid cleaves
into hues of sapphire, vermillion, and plum.

Dipping the cup away from my lips, my eyes
partner with figures caught in the glow.
Twisting the stem, we swirl and bow.

I whisper my toast with chalice raised high to
the One above in praise of our new beginning.
The fire bids a sprightly response in kind.

This third day arrives following opulent feasts,
packages bursting with promise, tumbling
words and smiles.

Today escorts a gracious thanksgiving. A
peace rests under the tree. I take a breath in
the stillness of His presence and His love for me.

Author’s Note:

The third day of Christmas in Christian churches is dedicated to St. John the Evangelist. He seems to have many associations with wine being at the marriage fest of Cana and, by some traditions, having been served wine laced with poison and surviving. So my poem this third day raises a glass in gratefulness of the gift of this season.


2nd Day of Christmas/December 26th

A fire burns low, blue hot as shiny spandexed
riders speed past. A tin bears sufficient fuel,
warms the cold, bides time until the traffic ebbs
near the river winding through the city. Here this

tea party offers no scones or steaming earl grey.
There is no crown for the guest of honor, no guest
of honor at all. The music of the wren tucked
safely high into a corner of the bridge, an
afternoon’s diversion. As the flame dies out,

laughter barrels across an austere night with stories
wide. A bottle passes from hand to hand, sharing
the only gift to warm stiff bones and hearts isolated
in the chill. Stephen’s crown a touchstone. The wren

who nests with family dear a paragon. His martyr’s
words ring through my days, make room for
those forgotten. I pack my box this Boxing Day,
not with trinkets, but with his humanity to be
freely given away.

Author’s Note:

This second day of Christmas celebrates St. Stephen. You know the one good King Wenceslas emulated on this feast day? The twelve days of Christmas have many traditions tied to them. One is St. Stephen of the Acts of the Apostles, first martyr for the Christian church. Another tradition is Irish, the wren who fiercely builds a nest for a happy family and can even at times be heard in winter. Boxing Day is also celebrated across the world this day.



The crunch of snow sifts through the
quiet moon night, footsteps sure of the path.

A small candle burns cupped inside
a clay-fired bowl formed from earth.

I make my way this long dark night
under bare limbed trees of winter.

Kneeling. I nestle the heart light into
crisp white snow. I await this eve for

rebirth, not the sweet babe innocent of its
journey mewing  for mother’s milk.

I wait in the cold bone chilling to feel his
breath within, mixing with mine, becoming one.

Author’s Note:

As the days of Advent draw to a close and Christmas day nears, I find my poetry becoming sparse. Less to say and more space for listening.

You may read my previous poems from this Advent:

Manifest  Advent/Dusk

Honeycomb   Advent/Noon

Convergence  Advent/Dawn



When it fell the scatter was neglected, pieces
skittered under the upright’s boards, some near

the cellarette, others sober at the impact. Lethargy
ignored the folly. No one near to hear the cry of anguish,

pieces no longer molded into one perfect orb reflecting
lights from the tree. A glassmaker’s work finely executed,

delicate in it’s balance, golden glass thinly formed around
nothing but breath. A globe – the size of a well-made snowball

ready to be blasted through the night at an unsuspecting
passerby – this shiny rondure once held the glory

of its artisan’s expiration deep inside. A knock,
a paw batted in boredom, a curious hand reaching

to snare its glow, shards lay unable to be one
as the maker decreed, brokenhearted. I face the night,

early in its arrival, cold, preparing for the warmth of his
breath. I await his advent to become one again, human like me.

Author’s Note:

Today I am surprised at the darkness of my Third Sunday of Advent poem. Maybe it’s because of the time cycle I chose as the vehicle for this Advent series. Today it is dusk, not dawn or noon as in previous poems. Maybe it’s my fear of the night and not trusting in the dawn to come.

In Richard Rohr’s Preparing for Christmas, he explores two halves, Spirit that makes two into one and the diabolical that tears into parts.

I am pulled down into darkness by my own brokenness and inability to see His light within me.

I believe the purpose of Advent is to help me make room once again for that which was there in the beginning, His breath.

His Spirit is within me, I am one with Him. This is the glory of His birth, he became like me to show that even through my brokenness, He is there and I am His light in the world.

Click on the links below to read my other poems in the Advent cycle:

Honeycomb   Advent/Noon

Convergence  Advent/Dawn

The Lion and The Mortal/7

Lion devours mortal, becomes mortal.
Mortal devours Lion, becomes leonine.

You made your way through dusty streets,
sandaled, dry, hung in cloth worn soft by travel.

Your face browned in the sun, rough, intimately lined.
Your beard and your hair braided with sand.

The Lion came to devour that which was human.
Eat. Drink. Weep. Teach. Unyieldingly love.

Perish. You left a banquet table for the feast.
We consecrate and gorge to become worthy, yet

forget that on which the Lion feasted.
The Lion became mortal, we are one.




Author’s Note:

In pondering Logion 7, it is said that the two images are not parallel. It is said that Jesus is describing two different states of human beings. I think I understand this, but I have a different way of seeing this parable.

Jesus, not as the lamb but as the Lion of God, leonine in his love for us, becomes human, lives human. The curse of being human is death itself. Jesus had to die because he was mortal. However, He left us the last supper, our communion, as a reminder. When we eat the Lion He becomes a part of us, we become the Lion. We need this reminder lest we forget that He is the Lion within us.

I think I will need to return to this logion and my understanding of this gospel grows.
Logion 7 of the Gospel of Thomas translated by Thomas O. Lambdin as found at the Gnostic Society Library.

(7) Jesus said, “Blessed is the lion which becomes man when consumed by man; and cursed is the man whom the lion consumes, and the lion becomes man.”

The other poems in this series of my study of the Gospel of Thomas can be found at Theophany or here:

Through the Mirror/5