In the Catskills winter arrives in autumn.
Flesh blood bones almost freeze
But spirits revive in frigid fields
And on the chapel’s stone floor
Where knees complain teeth chatter tears flow.

Shivering in an old army field jacket
Threadbare jeans worn cowboy boots
A pilgrim from New York’s seamy streets
Stands star-gazing in the snow.
One star dominates the sky.

The Magi’s Christmas star
Led to something misunderstood.
They came saw left as ignorant as before
Unable to comprehend their mission.
Reading stars is no easy matter.

They brought gifts instead of their hearts.
Gold myrrh instead of lives of service
To one who could restore lives of value.
U-turn back to a dead dispensation
Secular kingdoms of illusive glory.

Whitman mourned demise of a "western star"
Nineteenth century magus who knew his mission.
Walt sang of April lilacs in dooryards
Mournful procession from DC to Springfield
While our songs of praise are icy signatures
Of a new dispensation.

In this juncture of sky fields mountains woods river
And unblinking star
We see hear touch embrace God.
We will never u-turn
Never abandon this amazing grace.

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