ADESTE FIDELES

Come

Come to Bethlehem

Join the company
    Mary is here
    And Joseph
    A donkey
    Cattle lowing
    Shepherds   
    A lamb or two
    Wise men three
    And, if you choose, you

Come to Christmas

Venite adoramus

IN THE SHOPPING MALL TEN DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

She was beautiful
    black, lustrous hair,
    skin that shimmered,
    eyes a man could
    fall into and drown
and she chose me (me!)
stepped in front of me
and gave me a smile
that fastened my feet to the floor.

You celebrate the holidays
don't you? she purred.
    Uh . . . yeah . . . sure.
    (I have such a way with words)
She touched my arm.
Good, she said. I'd like
to show you something
over here and nodded
her entire magnificent body
at a kiosk filled with jars
and bottles of something or other.

I took a last look at her.
I don't think so, I said
and escaped, my wallet
and self-respect intact.

I'm still regretting it.

SONGS IN THE NIGHT

On cold winter Sunday nights
the week ended or perhaps began
with my parents singing.
Mother played the piano as they sang.
Self-taught, she cheated a bit
on the alto and tenor lines but
not the bass which Dad sang to
accompany her soprano. Old songs
mostly: Study War No More and
Old Kentucky Home but mostly the hymns
we sang at church. Sent to bed,
my sister and I were ushered to sleep
with What a Friend We Have in Jesus
and We'll Understand It All By and By.
Worries about school the next day
and whether the Russians would drop
the Bomb surrendered to the two part
harmony coming from downstairs where
two people who loved each other
and us sang their songs into the night.

ARROWHEAD

Late summer. I took off my shoes
and waded ankle-deep into the water.
The Indians, I’d been told, called it
"Chiques." We just called it "the creek."
I stepped on something smooth, glanced
down and saw what looked like an arrowhead.
I picked it up and became at once

      a warrior, face painted, alert
      to every sound, moving with swift     
      stealthy step through the trees that
      surround the white settlement. I can
      hear the thud of hammers, the rasp
      of saws. Peering through the branches
      of a hemlock, I see men lifting logs
      to build their fort. Quickly I reach
      for the quiver on my back, fit the arrow
      onto my bow. I pull the string back
      to my ear and . . .

I hear my mother calling me for supper.