Additional Credits:
In the quiet cold of the apartment
glass ornaments hang—
waiting.
Their posture
relaxed, the golden globes
soften the needled spruce
weighing the tree.
Its branches
bow under their weight,
fragile spheres lower to earth.
They who are created.
Glass angels
frozen in chorus, sing silent notes
Which float in the shadow
Of Him,
the small infant,
crying Love,
In this sacred stillness in which the humans
wake, and look east.
