Miracle Bells

     
I know a country road
one never walks or drives
in winter;
its snow is seldom plowed,
it leads to no one’s home.

Towards Christmas every year,
when snow is deep and soft,
I try to walk that road at night
towards a solitary
street lamp always lit
while I pray and listen,
watch in silence
for a touch of nativity,
advent of Divine agony
or glory,
seek epiphany of love,
feel the hand of God.

Tonight I watch snow flakes
from heaven fall,
twirling dancers,
random blessings,
in this cone of light,
mid-winter’s soft cocoon.

I have known the approach of God
by tears,
but tonight I pray and pray--
another year has gone by
since I was here,
why am I so distant,
dull my hearing,
hard my heart--
make me once again
a poet of your beauty,
Lord.

Then suddenly I hear faintly
growing louder the ringing
of little bells,
yes, little bells ringing
at midnight
in the wilderness of no place
people are

Is it angels singing
in silver voices,
or cows with bells
stirring on a farm
far across the river?

Could that river be of stars,
that silver singing still rising
from the very stable?