Joseph’s Journey (For Randi Gray Kristensen)

Joseph had grown old enough not to believe
The occupiers of the holy places in Jerusalem 
Whose lies, curled like shavings of cedar
From his blade, surrounded him on the floor, 

Sweat for the few shekels that he earned,
Taxed by Romans whose peace defiled rivers 

With blood, mountains with their standards.
Yet as far east as the roads crowded with caravans 

Could travel, spears sprouted from the sand.
The coin from Mary's uncle burned in his palm, 
And Joseph turned it once more, perhaps, for an omen
That would ease his heart from the gossip in his town. 
But when she greeted his eyes and blessed his hands,
He lowered his head and surrendered to her love.



Give thanks to Randi, who has made me restart my practice of writing a poem or story for Christmas. I've collected some of the best in Twelve Poems and A Story for Christmas.

Merry Christmas!


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