The Pageant

The round faces of all the children
have turned their attention again to the squirming, swaddled child
marking the travels they have made
through the lines of the pageant they know so well.

Each cheek is smudged with a bit of frosting or chocolate
from the plundered goodies gathered as offerings
too near the stage.

The littlest angels are free - range in this production,
howling like the coxswain in a lifeboat set adrift,
and the olders expunge small hurts and fear with cooing voices
like salve they have learned from their mothers.

We witnesses are silently healed
in the retelling of the ancient story.

The star shines dimly above halos and gossamer wings.
Behold!

The magic drifts in on the wisps of incense
and floats on the sounds of voices
lifted on the notes shaped onto the trestle
of all our modest prayers.