‘Adoration of the Magi,’ ca. 1475

He’s painted it as a scene in a play

he may have seen as a child, given us

what we’ve wanted. Not just

the gem-encrusted ewer,

the ciborium holding fragrant myrrh.

Or the African king in majestic white,

gold coins tossed at a baby’s feet—

or even the mother—

crowned herself with stiff, crimped hair.

But also, those minor actors

who are like us—

some human tangle of wonder

and despair: the peasant

awkwardly leaning in for a better view;

the two shepherds reaching chapped hands

through the essential window, warming

themselves over a fire—

the world, the word, offering

them its flame—

as if the artist understood

it’s not just the old stories—

And somewhere, another woman

croons a tune to her own

naked boy. Somewhere, too, a bird turns

a silver wing—

and soon, darkness will arrive.

The curtain falls. The audience

gathers up belongings, believing,

at least for now—

in that fire, that illumination they

have seen, holding it in their own cold hands,

small warmth that could sustain them

on the long journey home.