Some swear May,
or maybe June — that’s when
the order, no doubt, went out,
to return home for census.
The month matters little;
what amounts to much is this:
That God so great chose
such an fragile package,
small-mooned finger- and toenails,
eyes, indifferent blue, unfocused,
a light down of hair covering
unformed patches of skull.
Vulnerable to heat and cold,
easily ravaged by disease,
liable to accidents, injury.
Ten million pounds of phenomenon
packed into skin that chaps
in winter, burns in summer.
Impossible! Witless!
And yet, He came.
He grew in wisdom,
and died for sin.
I stand amazed.
Houses, some draped in lights,
most not;
cars dart like fish in parking lots.
How do we breathe,
knowing what we know of miracle?
How do we schlep gifts?
How do we not kneel at the sight?—
God incarnate,
smelling, as all babies do,
of perfect purity.

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