The hungry darkness prowls the street.
A whisper troubles him. A word
long dead arisen from—who knows
the where, the when? Enough to shake
his long complacency. A spark,
a light, a star—the whisper grows
in corners, flickers, and is gone.
A child, he hears. Ah, he will take
precautions, weave unwelcome in
closed doors, a bed of straw to greet
the newborn danger, ox and ass
to trample weakness. His mistake.
Straw burns. The shadows cringe, retreat
as night goes up in flames upon a wooden stake.
©2012, Abbey of St. Walburga, Virgina Dale CO