Most times, my mom and sisters know me better than I do (there are glaring exceptions). This week my mom sent me a package of pages and clippings from my favourite Saturday reading material, The Irish Times Magazine. Pieces she knew I’d like, and she was right.

One of them was a new poem by John F. Deane. I guess it’s good I can’t write poetry like this, because if I could, I’d be proud.

A Birth

Yeshua, at your birth, did the angels
sing Vivaldi’s Gloria? and the shepherds,
did they play jaws harp, Jews’ harp, tonguing
Dvorak’s New World Symphony? The spheres–
were they humming, as twilight turned
from tangerine to emerald, and down
to a drear and turquoise basso–did the stars
sound out Bruckner, Brahms and Bach?
That sheep may safely graze…Or was it merely
the snuffling of animals in the small farms, the opening
of stable doors, or city-sounds of preparation
for another day, like an orchestra tuning up, this
puer natus, this image of love, of God invisible.