A man extended his arms forward
so the blanket over his head formed a tent.
Through the opening, cradling a favorite doll,
And a stuffed tiger, crawled the two-year old
in pigtails and pj’s.
New pj’s.
It was dark inside.
Her pupils dilated so she could see
a tiny space. And grandpa.
Yet something wasn’t right.
She hurriedly left to return with
more of what was precious to her.
A blue horse.
Second favorite doll.
Pink princess brush.
Every item was shifted and tilted
Until they passed inspection.
It was quiet. Still. Holy.
Her excited breath the only sound.
Two sets of eyes met.
She whispered, “It’s great, isn’t it!”
A gray-bearded man smoothed his linen robe.
New linen robe.
White. Blue.
Hemmed with pomegranates and bells.
Though he limped, he limped with dignity
Through burning, wilderness sand.
Clutching a bowl of blood.
Lambs’ blood.
He stooped and entered the tent within a tent.
It was dark inside.
He could smell a hint of lanolin
Mixed with the pungent scent of incense borne on
Whispy streams of smoke.
Something was amiss.
He hurriedly hobbled out, bells tinkling, to return
With more of what was dear to him.
Twelve stones. Emerald. Carbuncle. Topaz and more.
It was still. Quiet. Holy.
He could hear his own breath.
With his eyes closed
He saw he was not alone.
He lingered long,
Then whispered, “It’s great, isn’t it!”
A priest. A son. Pierced hands.
Wounded feet and side.
Enveloped in a new robe.
White. Blue.
Stepping where only angels tread
He stooped to enter the tent within a tent.
Left arm cradled the all costly bowl of blood.
Lambs’ blood.
No light needed.
It was Holy. Still. Quiet.
For a moment he waited, breathless,
Until he knew he was not alone.
Father and son embraced.
They lingered.
Father, he whispered,
“It’s great isn’t it!”
Barnyard of Heaven 