The infant grew with every passing year.
His mother tends and nurtures, cares and feeds,
providing all a growing infant needs.
The seasons roll, he crawls, he walks: her dear
makes sounds for mother, father, which come clear
as month turns into month. A year recedes,
the boy laps up the stories of God’s deeds.
He helps his father with the wood. He’s near.
Has Mary quite forgotten all she heard
from magi, angels, shepherds, Gabriel?
Has filled-up life wiped out what had occurred,
and has the old man’s warning gone as well?
Or does she sometimes pause, rethink the day
The retinue of magi found their way.