Baby Jesus wrapped in burlap.
Mary and Joseph softly glow.
The nativity, wreathed in snow.
We take a moment, ignoring wires,
to consider the Christ, sired by the
Maker of this winter and this ice.
Though we rejoice with synthetic creche
and buy ceramic saints and in our souls,
the questions linger, unanswered,
when soltise brings this evening
as electric candles light the night,
we might shuck solidifying disbelief.
For, once, in late December,
awash in commerce and in rush,
each becomes aware of a silent, holy hush.
In that sacred second, when plastic is made flesh,
our harried souls may find hiatus and belief.