Advent Through Poetry Day FIFTEEN (Swaddling Cloths)

Rolled, wrapped, folded, packed. 

I don’t know where we go. 

Bump, jar, skid, groan. 

We seem to be moving slow. 

Cold, dark, night, traveling. 

Perhaps I can give her warmth. 

Dusty, dirty, stretched, worn. 

Then again, I might get marked. 

Baby, crying, stable, unwrapped. 

Put to my true use. 

Swaddled, folded, quieted, stilled. 

Not a corner of me loose. 


Thirty Three Years Later

Again brought to the light of day

So long since I was in the hay, 

Seems this time I’m here to stay- wait

is that the same babe?

Rolled, wrapped, folded, packed. 

Around the body I once kept warm. 

Bump, jar, skip, bloodied. 

Killed by those who scorn. 

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