A thought practiced watching from wings
As things pranced into the light and bowed.
Ideas were ever the unacknowledged stage
Managers of the theater’s awareness. Snow
That looked convincingly fluffy and cold
Dumped from above the gliding curtains.
Back of the sifted snow, a three-walled barn
Faced its open side toward the footlights.
That was the idea. An overflowing trough
Of hay, a swaddled human baby on top,
A young woman in blue and white robes
Bending over the baby, a bearded man
In duller robes beside her. Three grandees
Off to one side, glittering, bearing gifts
The way ambassadors approach a throne,
A few barn animals, cows and goats, no pigs,
And a cluster of shepherds plus a few sheep
Arranged themselves so that all could be
Seen. That was the idea. Make it all seem
Artfully, or at least deliberately staged.
You can’t have a play without an author,
Players, props, at least a few gestures, but
Don’t overthink it. Perish the thought.
What was left was habit, costumes, lights,
The figures glowing in the lights, curtains.
Awareness dimmed, but another thought
In the darkness behind brought up the lights.
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