Cathedral Crib

Thee plaster figures,
minimal, modern on thy knees
before the crib and after
midnight mass, an exodus
trails remnant candlewax.

Through the pale
moth-white blank,
we find faces
as if an alabaster crust
could crumble from shepherds
unveil their ways
lashed into themselves
over and over;
the heart-laugh, the hale,
the tatter and the rough.

'Be not afraid' easier sung
than clung to in the pounding pulse
of a radical encounter
to journey deep through tangled fear
of unknowable tomorrows.

It will always be tough.
Confines of my stubborn atrium
caught in the thrall,
the tendons throb, and trust, slashed.

Yet here, a pull
feel it.