If naked eye could split the light
into prismatic rays,
or filter out pollution’s glare
and see through living’s haze,
mind could tally up the ifs,
the wherefores and the whys –
and not need a prescription drawn
to make sense of good-byes.
Soul runs empty,
pants for bread,
craves attachment,
must be fed;
convention’s trough
won’t satisfy –
O Christmas Son,
will you supply?
Born and laid
in manger hay,
feed our souls
this Christmas Day.
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For more on this topic, visit Growing With God in my Garden