HOUR OF THE SHEPHERDS
…These and other things (more secret) got between us and
Maria.
Yet the shadow of her hand, in the shape of blessing, was
spread on the tiles of the yard at the hour of the shepherds
or on top of the bread at supper time
fogging the glasses as if a white cloud was passing
faraway in a country landscape with five creeks.
Then Uncle Lampis, serene and uninvolved, remembered
to cross himself as if erasing the four points of the horizon
with his joined three fingers. Even Uncle John felt
appeased for a while. A dissolved emotion was
hanging off the knot of the curtain string.
Long hours, expanded despite their concentration.
What was that lamb doing now in the rain?
Was it that same lamb
of Saint John, standing as if sacrificed?
However, this one didn’t have seven ears, nor seven
eyes, poor, wooden lamb, destitute, sheared, bleating
only once. How can you combine all these?
