Metropolitan Museum, December afternoon:
We are wandering urgently, randomly,
without guide or purpose
but to find one more exhibit before closing.

My love descends the first-floor stairs,
and I follow a moment later
to find her standing
before an enormous Christmas tree
we had no idea was there.

Renaissance angels
poise to fly through branches,
trumpeting, singing, rejoicing
in a friendly jungle of evergreen
and cascading ribbons of gold
or gossamer,

all of them lit brightly, whitely,
mesmerizing us,
while Gregorian chant rolls
from the depths of some ancient stone hall.

This is a found thing,
a happy accident, transcendent,
before which we stand,
reverently, hand in hand,
awed and transfixed by Christmas.

12/08/2001

Posted on 12/08/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt