Centuries have built this.
An angel out of heaven, golden
light around his head, saying
to a frightened girl, “Fear not.”
The cover of the book where I read this
    is fragrant with mold,
        ready for someone new
to ponder words like swaddled and privily
and the decree that went out
    from Caesar Augustus
in the days of Herod the King.

Mistletoe stands in a bucket on the porch,
berries milk-white, leaves icy,
and the shotgun standing in the corner
    that we brought these green twigs
down with, these sacred berries, from oaktops,
        a whiff of gunpowder evanescent.

Mary is troubled by the angel’s words.
She knits her brow at these
things that will come to pass.
And we are in the story too,
    here and then gone,
shadows at the upright piano
singing about three kings
and frankincense and a manger.

Coal smolders in the grate,
stockings hang from cup-hooks on the mantel.
We’ve chopped down a cedar tree
and set it up in the living room.

Here’s the box grandfather made
to keep the ornaments in.

This article originally appeared inThe New Criterion, Volume 44 Number 4, on page 45

Copyright © 2025 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com

https://newcriterion.com/article/the-christmas-box/

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