Missing the Banquet

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Missing the banquet

The same story, always.

No room in palaces, or

middle-class lounges. So

He goes where few

would choose to.  Down. 

Among those working for small

 wages, hemmed

 in by circumstance, forced

 to be silent, still,

and awake

to see

the glory

of an angel-streaked sky,

and hear the promise

of Joy:

A Saviour.

And His simple, easily

missed gift:

Peace.

Whatever I may miss

In the hurly-burly of my days

Let it not be you,

Elusive, beloved one

Or the great banquet

To which you summon me,

In which you are the appetizer,

Meat and sweet.

Let me feast with you before

the day rushes in on me,

and through its quiet interstices.

Let this tragedy not be mine:

too busy with the field, the cow,

the barn to savour the banquet,

squinting at the endless to do list,

missing the dazzle of the rainbow.