Mist rises from the Mediterranean and fills the black folds of mountains like incense . . .
Mist rises from the Mediterranean
and fills the black folds of mountains like incense
in the robes of four priests, each one sprinkling
holy water, chanting to the baby
held in his mother’s arms like a still life
of Mary and Jesus. When I close my eyes
I hear music from the wilderness, Greek
names for God chanted like Jews, like Turks,
and all the holy men whose religions grew
here before science, every God like the twilight
wind pouring through the windows, greeting each
burning face with the same cool air, the cedar
doors opened to a view of the ridge-line,
a red band streaked across the horizon
pierced by the ancient light of the evening star.