I awoke this morning, on this day after
the loneliest December of my life and
a Christmas Day when it seemed everybody else
was off on grand adventures, in Switzerland
or sunny Mexico or across some ocean wide.
There had been few gifts, no cards, and
all the "Merry Christmases" few and far between.
Still, I was leaning into sun and singing,
"Arise, your light is come!" reciting
the words of Isaiah as I flung open
the curtains to see the tiny wren.

It was only then I remembered it was
St. Stephen's day and how, on the last day
he was with us he forgave the boy who watched the coats
as they hurled their stones. So like the one
who forgave those who know not what they do,
he was a light for me, for you. When I lived
in Ireland, there were great festivities and
a quiet appreciation and, for me, the memory
of our Lord and the way he breathed life
into everything again and again and again. 

So I stood at the window talking to the bird
without words and asking him to fly to you,
you my beloved friend, that you might remember
something of me, of this time or the other, 
of the only bond that matters. And then,
when the wordless words were no more,
I turned my face to the light of the sun
then fell to my knees and asked him 
to receive my spirit. But as he had
with the wren, he breathed again
on me and held me close, wrapped me up
in a feather bed on St. Stephen's Day
and bid me wait, wait, wait for you.