Jim used to come here at Christmas

to be prayerful with the beasts;

the warmth of their collectivity

gently corrected the errors December

commits in moments of delinquency.

The sides were in places

more space than pine

and the wind rarely bothered knocking

before rushing in.

By this time the swallows

were grown and gone, or as good as gone,

saving up in rafters their enthusiasm

for spring with such discipline

that they spent nothing of themselves.

Here was like the clock of creation

had been turned back a bit

to make up for lost sun;

like the book of Genesis was left

open on the Shaker coffee table

at the first or second page.

Jim thought it good to begin

here at the beginning in a barn

full of old holes and curiosities

given to corners for lack of brothers

who used to love to play with them.

When God had settled into the manger

and the straw-bales for a second

stopped pricking the bottoms of the

congregation, a sturdy faith came out

of the beams and floorboards

taking hold of every heart.

Just then an angel,

as gap-toothed as the walls,

would start humming something

and the miracle was complete.