Deep within the clay, and O my people
very deep within the wholly earthen
compound of our kind arrives of one clear,
star-illumined evening a spark igniting once again the tender of our lately
banked noetic fire. She burns but she
is not consumed. The dew lights gently,
suffusing the pure fleece. The wall comes down.
And—can you feel the pulse?—we all become
the kindled kindred of a King whose birth
thereafter bears to all a bright nativity.