Christmas Poem
The year begins with this sacred child
born into a manger, wrapped in wool,
crying with all the might of its lungs,
bemoaning its separation from source.
We all have felt it, known the longing
for the mystery we knew before this form,
the lost perfection of not being,
the warm embrace of sweet belonging.
On this morning the child was born,
no one special, no angels with trumpets,
simply a child, born to a man and a woman,
poor, alone in a strange city, without prophecy.
And so the child grew, wandered, and returned,
saw through the veil of unknowing, and proclaimed
himself the Son of God, a heretic, rebel,
but one who knew the truth from which we all hide.
For his wisdom he gave his life, so that we may not
fear, may not hide, that we may embrace the truth
of who we are, that we are Spirit, that we, too,
are the perfect children of the Kosmos.
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