Mary groans and leans toward Joseph
as he lifts her off the donkey.
Gratefully she stretches her aching limbs on the straw
feeling again the urgency of her body,
a bell tolling deep inside announcing
the coming of the Child;
summoning Him to this world.
Mary closes her eyes and enters her inner garden,
full of shafts of sunlight melting through green canopies,
morning- fresh and shining with dew as in Eden.
In this place of blooming, blessed with birdsong,
she begins to open as a rose, petal by petal,
infinitely tender, aching with stretch
as the heavy door of the garden opens.
And then beads of sweat line her upper lip
as she pushes Him through the canyon of herself,
letting Him go,
Helping Him come into the world.
Opening wide his eyes,
He breathes air and gasps and cries.
Aching in all her limbs
she gathers Him to her, swaddling him with blankets.
As a rose closes, her body recedes from birth,
pain ebbs away, and wonder wells up to fill her body.
Her eyes drown in the Child’s face,
and she collapses into the smell of newborn skin
and the rhythm of His breathing.
It seems the stars are hugging the hills,
and choirs of seraphim light the rim of sky,
shepherds hear the music.
Astronomers are filled with rare excitement
at the planets holding hands and gazing down.
Joseph curls his body to shelter mother and child,
and the animals stand close to keep them warm.
from Rose Windows in the Cathedral of Mary, 1994,
by Martina Nicholson MD
martina2b 