Christ | Christmas | Incarnation | Love | Poetry

High on the vast shore of the year
a shell lies stranded;
parched, brittle, dulled with drought,
more lonely than sand, more useless than driftwood.
The fickle tides have teased
and forsaken it,
continuously inching closer until
the sand beneath drew damp,
then fleeing for multiple weeks,
nearly beyond bearing.
At last the high annual
flood of joy arrives,
drenching the shell,
rainbowing its pearly memory
until prisms of song
rapture its arid heart./Christmas is the flood.
I am the shell. Charles A. Waugaman, Myrrh for My Birthday.

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