I wonder now in
as shepherds tend their sheep,
is the grass upon the hills
coarse beneath their feet?
And do the shepherds search the sky
taking light from milk-swept stars
and start to hear a harmony,
a faint sweet sound, forgotten choir?
I wonder now these miles away
with all my concentration bent,
could I hear, too, a remnant play
across the generations sent
to those who would participate
in the Christ Child’s birth, however late?
©1995 Muriel Thumm