Nativity Told in Stars and Fire
by Cassie Schifman '18
I hate the idea that stars "twinkle"
That they seem to us so temporary
As to wink in and out of existence like fairy dust
Stars are not magical in the least, after all
They do not need to be
Instead they are (power guidance lightness love)
And their very essence is fire
I chide the child I once was, searching the night for shooting stars
"Can’t you see," I whisper, "The sky is burning."
These trees are burning too then
Dotted with celestial bodies of the Edison persuasion
They are alight with the echo of human achievement
And the hope of Christmas, of course
With intensity sufficient to burn ephemeral impressions in my corneas
I wrap Christmas around my shoulders like a scarf
With an image of the world not as it is but as it should be
So bright and big and full of hope
And so alive with flickering anticipation that I fear it is too fragile to survive
Standing in the gift shop later my feet slip out of my shoes
As I lean up to run my fingers over a journal cover
Perhaps this is the moment for which you have been created
(How very biblical, how very not my style...)
And yet, aren't stars with their (power guidance lightness love) everywhere?
Isn't the universe on fire?
With me alive to watch it smolder and to kindle the flames
So that they can warm some else's (hands head heart)
As the world burns a little brighter
With trembling fingers that evening I light a candle
Its flame fueled by anxieties and analogies and above all else the hope
That the world is not already so bright as to miss me
My candle will never as perfect or as strong as I want it to be
I am already aware of how quickly it might go out
But I refuse to be afraid of the fact that the sky is alight and alive
I will not accept that a Christmas tree is just a Christmas tree
And as for the notion of my purpose being tied to that flickering light
I smile, and say only
Perhaps
That they seem to us so temporary
As to wink in and out of existence like fairy dust
Stars are not magical in the least, after all
They do not need to be
Instead they are (power guidance lightness love)
And their very essence is fire
I chide the child I once was, searching the night for shooting stars
"Can’t you see," I whisper, "The sky is burning."
These trees are burning too then
Dotted with celestial bodies of the Edison persuasion
They are alight with the echo of human achievement
And the hope of Christmas, of course
With intensity sufficient to burn ephemeral impressions in my corneas
I wrap Christmas around my shoulders like a scarf
With an image of the world not as it is but as it should be
So bright and big and full of hope
And so alive with flickering anticipation that I fear it is too fragile to survive
Standing in the gift shop later my feet slip out of my shoes
As I lean up to run my fingers over a journal cover
Perhaps this is the moment for which you have been created
(How very biblical, how very not my style...)
And yet, aren't stars with their (power guidance lightness love) everywhere?
Isn't the universe on fire?
With me alive to watch it smolder and to kindle the flames
So that they can warm some else's (hands head heart)
As the world burns a little brighter
With trembling fingers that evening I light a candle
Its flame fueled by anxieties and analogies and above all else the hope
That the world is not already so bright as to miss me
My candle will never as perfect or as strong as I want it to be
I am already aware of how quickly it might go out
But I refuse to be afraid of the fact that the sky is alight and alive
I will not accept that a Christmas tree is just a Christmas tree
And as for the notion of my purpose being tied to that flickering light
I smile, and say only
Perhaps
