The little crèche I’ve already set up,
and hidden Jesus on the kitchen shelf,
the waiting manger empty as a cup
that he will fill at Christmas with himself.
Today, though, is an ordinary day
that needs caffeine, the ordinary way.
I set my cup out, kettle about to boil,
and fish around in the clutter—now it sings—
to find the teabags. There, in all the coil,
the child appears, a thing among the things.
I glance but do not see him—then I do,
with teabags, flashlights, junk hullaballoo.
The naked porcelain’s incongruous:
I see him, and the junk and I transform.
He builds a stable from my daily fuss
and comes a beggar unto beggars born,
an animal among the animals.
I worship, making tea here in the stalls.
My kitchen shelf, photo by me.
Kate Bluett 