Hannah at St. Thomas
"Therefore I have lent him to the Lord..." 1 Samuel 1:28
In this madonna season I sit surrounded
by plain and not so plainsong,
searching for the one bright note attuned to my sound.
Like Hannah, I brave the eyebrowed skepticism
of presiding priests who rightly suspect
my presence is less pious,
more maternal.
No matter.
I know what I've laid on the altar.
Bone of bone.
Flesh of flesh.
A gift no usher could collect
in plates of silvered velvet.
In this madonna season I am reminded
that birth is just the first separation.
And though each sock is named, each letter numbered,
there's a loss which is never reclaimed.
For each procession moves through time as well as space,
and every turn reveals less child, more power in his face.
Neither maestro nor messiah,
he simply lives and moves and sings.
And in place of angel visits,
I only ask
that in his dark of night
he'll hear
all that is holy call him by name.
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