Sitting above Beit Sahour, the hill’s peak
letting him see Bethlehem’s distant lights
merely two kilometers away—meek
shepherds walking there once he’d rocked their night
of calm in the cave, announcing the birth—
he decides to serenade their sheep, his
voice soft and pure, like spring wind kissing earth,
deep peace filling all touched by gentle kiss.
He recalls how, months earlier, he had
startled the shy, young virgin, waking her
from sleep. How she seemed frightened, even sad
at first to learn wondrous seed had entered,
void of passion. How she knelt whispering,
eyes closed. He studies the far star’s flaring.
Roger Armbrust
December 2, 2007
