Nativity of Our Lord, CimetiÈre Mont-Calvaire
Peter Huff
Snow falls upon the tiny grave
We bought before your first feast day.
In frost and bright immaculate,
A beggar’s cloak of evergreen
Close swaddles you;
Purple martins, late in migration,
Huddle warm round your low,
Unorthodox manger.
And if wise men trace your too brief
Star, earth’s mute angel will sing.