Advent poem by my B.C. '63 classmate Geo. M. Perreault

"Our writers' group puts together an Advent calendar; we're supposed to contribute little things -- recipes or poems & such. This is my scribble per this morning's scribbles."  

~George M. Perreault (D.Ed), Univ. of NV Reno, gmp@unr.edu 
(a B.C. '63 classmate of mine.)

 Rain in the Desert, Year Zero

It was the star, of course, which first drew us west,
away from our studies, a brilliant wondering in the night:
curiosity or hope, the little sisters of despair.

Yet, when stars are now beyond the reach of my eyes,
the mountains vague and even the near trees mere rumors,
another memory intrudes, sustains me on this shore:

Clouds swelling into the evening, the path lost in mist,
we found shelter under a rocky overhang; no need for tents
that night, even the camels edging in among us

while down it came, steady, pebbling the sand then working
deep to where the roots of everything sang with relief,
and the air was filled with the sweetness of each blessed plant.

It was, we learned, the same night the Child was born,
outside a little town nearly a fortnight off in the distance,
and we’ve heard it said that the sky filled with angels,

but what are angels except light and water, brushing over
the skin of this earth, easing ever downward, filling reservoirs
deep within us, blessings we too often forget we share?

And the story is told that we brought gifts as if for a king,
but in truth they were baubles, and we were given everything,
for the eyes of the Child were the color of desert rain.