Remembering that it happened once, We cannot turn away the thought, As we go out, cold, to our barns Toward the long night’s end, that we Ourselves are living in the world It happened in when it first happened, That we ourselves, opening a stall (A latch thrown open countless times Before), might find them breathing there, Foreknown: the Child bedded in straw, The mother kneeling over Him, The husband standing in belief He scarcely can believe, in light That lights them from no source we see, An April morning’s light, the air Around them joyful as a choir. We stand with one hand on the door, Looking into another world That is this world, the pale daylight Coming just as before, our chores To do, the cattle all awake, Our own frozen breath hanging In front of us; and we are here As we have never been before, Sighted as not before, our place Holy, although we knew it not. - Wendell Berry, 1987, Sabbath Poems
Posted on: Tue, 23 Dec 2014 10:33:00 +0000
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