My sixty-first November carols me.
The stuttered snow, the huddled hawk, the moon
(so bored above the pasture-scape) all wait
the coming Child again, again the church
plays Mary: is the future good? How can it be
the angel’s hail is not a curse, since I’ve
not known a man? Again the carols fling
their seeds, the smallest seeds of all the seeds,
along our deep and dreamless streets.