Missing the banquet
The same story, always.
No room in palaces, or
middle-class lounges. So
he goes where few
would choose to. Down.
Among those working for small
wages, hemmed
in by circumstance, forced
to be silent, still,
and awake
to see
the glory
Of an angel-streaked sky,
and hear the promise
of Joy:
A Saviour.
And His simple, easily
missed gift:
Peace.
Whatever I may miss
In the hurly-burly of my days
Let it not be you,
Elusive, beloved one
Or the great banquet
To which you summon me,
In which you are the appetizer,
Meat and sweet.
Let me feast with you before
The day rushes in on me,
And through its quiet interstices.
May this tragedy not be mine:
Too busy with the field, the cow,
the barn to revel in the banquet
Squinting at the black and white to do list,
Missing the dazzle of the rainbow.
