The Magi

Christian Century, Dec 19, 2001 by Kathleen L. Housley

   We kick our camels' sides and curse, but they refuse to rise,
   as if this house were the only oasis in a trackless desert,
   and this child, playing in the doorway, the owner of the well.
   They swing their ponderous heads slowly from side to side.
   Their silver harness bells tinkle, their vermillion tassels flap,
   and the child laughs.

   He cannot be the one foretold to lead us to the abode of light,
   where wisdom glistens like dewdrops on which new worlds curve.
   We must have misread the astrological signs or been dazzled
   by a wind-driven spark. But how do we explain the strange behavior
   of our beasts? They stretch out their necks on the sand and sigh.
   It sounds like prayer.

   There being none other, we may as well present our gifts to him,
   although they feel all wrong, as if we had carried precious salt
   across steep mountain passes to offer to a prince living by the sea.
   Worthless to us, we will leave our frankincense to purchase bread,
   and our gold to pay for lessons. Of what use is myrrh? Before we go,
   let us buy him a ball.

   Far away, we perceive our granddaughters spinning prayer wheels.
   Through our minds' sanctum echoes the sound of ripe plums tumbling
   into beggars' bowls. In the ravine of the roan horse, lightning
   blasts
   a single tree. Like closed pine cones, our hearts burst open in the
   heat!
   We would not be more astonished if a star slipped from the night
   to hover here beyond the dawn.

   Too stunned to dismount, we gaze and gaze. How extraordinary!
   The ordinary child!