There are no women here to help.
Joseph is midwife now.
In the bright starlight
through the stable doorway,
in the soft orange lamplight,
he kneels his sturdy bulk
at Mary's knees.
He has birthed calves and lambs.
His large, calloused hands
are gentle, sure.

The watching oxen jostle and snuffle
in their stalls,
their sweet breath steaming.

The angel's message has troubled him,
these long waiting months,
but as the child slips, bloodied, crying,
into his hands, baby arms outstretched,
he feels a rush of joy
binding him in love
to this divinity
whom he has given birth.

Seven Circuits: the Cretan Labyrinth

Climbing the hill, I glimpse among the trees
staubs of stone, standing
like stubs of shattered tombstones, carved slate
or marble, victim of storm or vandal, or
like native rocks on old New England gravesites,
placed to mark burials
when there was no money for carving.

On the hilltop the rocks reveal
their pattern. The foxfire path
spirals moonrise among trees, among stars.
I chose a white moonsnail shell for talisman,
follow the moon as it wanes to darkness.

In the surrounding mist,
pilgrims pace their millennial journey.
Generations of monks, encowled,
whisper their prayers.
Nuns in rough robes
counting their heavy wooden beads
walk their rosary circles
to join me at the labyrinth's hidden heart.

Returning with the waxing moon, I
place the shell in tribute on a stone
to mark my visit and emerge
from the buried past, waking
to the full moon's glory