Father built a wooden stable
under our frozen pine trees,
kneeling reverently on hard
and raw snow, like his home
was no longer just for his family,
but its open flame directed
to all soldiers and followers.
I observed him as I was a child
snuggled deeply in red pajamas,
wondering who had helped the baby
Jesus when his parents were
denied shelter, that silent windy
sky, alive with one newborn star.
Sneaking on my slippers,
I slid past the front door
and payed my respects
through that frigid night.
I bestowed on His head
a single rose bud,
knowing that He would
always cradle it close.
And I never saw the flower
wilt, even when I blinked.
