Prisms

Today we take down the gilded baubles strung
          over the porch, but keep the tree up for one

more night. It's past the Feast of the Epiphany,
        but there's always a pilgrimage being made

somewhere. Where do you find the bell's missing 
        tongue, its brass compass; the bird that a high wind 

swung out of a tree? I've always loved looking at
        stained glass windows, but then we stopped going

to church in the time of the plague. How light sought
        the brilliance of other colors in order to tell a fuller

story: the blue-edged hem of the woman's skirt, 
        the bud of the child's mouth near her breast. Flash 

of an ankle, foot crushing without hesitation the serpent's
         blue-green head, its body a rope of silk unwinding.