You came in cold month of mankind’s great hope,
a week early to lead the way, it seems.
You were “delivered,” doctor’s stethoscope
assuring your powerful heartbeat, dreams
in warm womb suddenly disrupted, air
rushing to lungs and blood to carry you
forward to where you stand now, presence rare
as an astronaut’s moonwalk—your blessed view
of being delivered again. As I’ve
been delivered, and others before us,
and others as you read this. We’re alive.
For real. No wonder you love clear focus
of kind signs and Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
No wonder you honor nativity.
Roger Armbrust
December 17, 2011
