Once more dreamscapes of happy
childhood come to life inside the globe.
To enter isn’t hard when you remember how
to Slide – colliding with the grass,
careening through the snow – in laughter
and in sunshine, all wrapped in innocence
of the fresh clean air. It’s a crystal ball you
give a whirl, watching as confetti starts to
swirl – some rise and some fall lightly
against your up-curved palm.
Do you believe the Virgin birthed?
A baby boy named Jesus – whom
angels sang – and shepherds ran to see
laid in a manger bare. On that night
exposed to chill, rousing songs break forth
from hearts once trapped in slumber, still.
Oh yes! Believer! warms Mr. Belafonte.
“Never, have I not believed” that down
from heaven God’s son slipped into Mary’s arms
before his weary head did rest upon a straw laid bed.
O marvelous mystery, proclaimed this night.
Enveloping horizons in dazzling array all
baptized races and nations into one. Each
eager to stoke red hot or tinker on icy bells:
Noëls grand or Poems in the common tongue.
Something from the heart born in their
Winter’s land. Lyrics wrapped more warmly
than the naked Infant King – hurling praise
for a Gift they could not bring.
Great Lord, O mighty king,
dearest saviour, O how little
you regard earthly splendour
He who maintains the whole world
and created its glory and adornment
must sleep in a hard crib. 
With feather quills to pluck out notes from
ancient harps and chords, where polished
whistles breeze through reeds and scores of
silver trills rising – up in the wind as a
clamorous quivering noise –
high above our greying heads,
a saintly hymn of praise is lead,
framed five times the length of forty pipes
streaming a Praise of Glory –
 Weihnachtsoratorium 1-8; J.S. Bach BWV 248/1-8