Too regal:
There were no drapes to hail Him king,
no cherubim in the background, aloft,
casually decking the scene, mid-song.
Yet this is right: if there were crowns,
they would be laid at His feet; and knees,
if wise, would know to bend.
We foresee the pious, in the corners, turned
toward their future king; and a long journey figured
in streets and hills, and horses mounting them.
The light’s far off, yet faces seem illumined.
Only the darker ones lack light: an error, this.
Epiphany brightens most the faces least expected here.
Not contained: the cost, the snorts of Herod,
the proud reflex to kill. All this smarts, demands
pensive faces show contrition to be brought here.
Is there room for us? We have no robes, King.
And yet, if cattle may rest above the frankincense,
we may also bow and drink Your light.
The Consolations of Writing 