Innermost

On the eve of hope, come, let us be
silent as joy, certain as change,
here before this Christmas tree.

Tassels of wind hang secretly
among berries and fruit and winter sun
that warmed the boughs of this tree.

Ghosts of butterflies delicately
shadow a branch, melt like snow
in the intimate dark of this tree.

A nest where robins were epiphany
clings to the flesh of the trunk
of this music and moon-gilded tree.

With carols and quiet let us be
reawakened to faith, purified,
giving us branches of this tree.

Circled about love’s mystery,
O for a moment fulfilled in light,
we are one in a word, a tree.

--Sr. Maura Eichner, S.S.N.D.