No one in this story
knows where they re going,
only that they are.
Mary and Joseph walk to Bethlehem
without a place to arrive.
This was the easy part. They will go on,
vagrant, to Egypt,
a dream for directions,
dragging the wind behind them,
erasing their footsteps.
Shepherds hear angels
and seek wonders—
how many little courtyards, do you suppose?—
looking for a baby
with nothing to go on
but a song,
a map without lines.
Magi trek for years.
When did they decide not to turn back?
There is no destination,
there is no way,
only a star
among stars.
You, trudging on toward meaning,
wandering among shadows,
your heart a globe,
map of voices,
the path becoming a path
only behind you:
imagine the Coming One,
walking out of the light
toward earth,
its dark tangle of mysteries,
knowing nothing to come,
only the Promise,
only the nearing,
only you.
December 6, 2016