Myra Scovel

Why should you hold your hands cupped that I may drop into them my arrogant gift without deigning to defile myself?

You are a man, aren’t you, fawning there before me, mouthing the words you think I want to hear, bowing your turban lower, lower, lower.

Stand up on your two feet, lift your head to the sky, knock the hated pittance out of my hand and look me in the eye!

This little stamp on this little disk, endlessly endless, stamp, click, stamp, click, this is my life endlessly clicking away.

What is this disk that I make all day? How is it used? stamp, click, stamp, click, one little disk ticking my life away.

Is it one little note to complete the scroll of the music of God; stamp, click, stamp, click,. One little disk, making Eternity whole?

Memories flood through the sun-filled bedroom Touching the painting of far-away snows, Tracing the path that we climbed together Up to the pass where the fierce wind blows.

I walk with you in our wind-swept garden, I walk, who must lie here day after day, The miracle wrought by a humble woman Who thought, ‘you should have, Ma’m a rose for your tray.’

Now that our greetings are over A silence has fallen upon us. I notice that you are wearing The color you know I love. After laying fresh wood on the fire, I smooth out the folds of my cassock And together we watch the fingers of flame Caress the rough jowls of a log.

Ah, but once this log Was alive in the forest outside, A tree that storms could not tame. I must be careful That only the casual word falls between us, That no spark is kindled.

Yet, ‘Is it too late?’ you ask, And the plumes of your small hat quiver, ‘Have you so quickly forgotten?’

How can I tell you That yours is a flame That would burn me to ash? You would not know of the bush ablaze With a fire that never consumes.

A fir stood proudly in the wood outlined by sky. A child cried, ‘Look, The stars are all caught in it. God has made us A Christmas tree!’