Christmas poem

What manner of salutation this?

The angel's presage of waiting labor,

of a burden-before-Being so common,

life's ubiquitous prop of progeny

this one time rare.

Seen there, a brilliant sun filling space

cast to a meager flicker, a warmth in one womb

for a near calendar of days

'til that one night you threshed in pain.

His cry, keeping time with your labored breaths,

with the lamb and the ox,

knew then only an initial hunger,

the thirst we all have known.

It was you he first loved here,

Millions of e-books will be published this year

That uneven beat

be it wing be it cavitied-muscle

be it tortured man typing note on paper

lost in a backroom.

Not forgotten.

Never remembered.

Insignificant creation spewed

to final recess of mind and ink,

ideas drifting to dissipate, disperse

in never read, never heard,

never-loved obscurity.

A dead forest of butterflies,

a heart never raced,

color and form in a land of the blind.

New one, a little rough

Salty flek, uneven, speckled surface,

ground or chopped,

squeezed like Christmas relative then spread as butter,

baked in cake or cookie

you waited there,

the assassin among bean thread,
hidden in sauce,

curry or cabbage your camouflage,

silent killer,

Yes, a poem about a utensil

Metal spoon

handle and scoop

tool of time

your uncertain content of tin and silver

was unhappy mixture, cool now

but such memory of white hot radiance

Undulant underside curve

upside down mirror

false sense of what is real

delicate set atop white wove linen

Down warped reflection

descend to brown broth

touch first, explore first

sibylline sense of what will come