In the bend of light through a frost-etched pane,
he reigns—quietly, a pulse of gold
beneath the skin of the world.
The cedar bows, heavy with snow,
and the sparrow, a fleck of breath
against the wind,
whisper his name without knowing.

Not in the clamor of thrones,
but in the seed splitting earth,
the slow seep of sap,
he holds all things—
the vast and the minute—
in a hand scarred with star-dust.
The river knows him,
carving its hymn through stone,
and the stars, those fierce sentinels,
burn with his borrowed fire.

Once, he was small—
a curl of flesh in straw,
a cry swallowed by night—
yet the sky split wide,
and angels, reckless with joy,
sang the weight of glory
into a manger’s dust.
Now, he sits enthroned
where time frays into eternity,
upholding the unraveling threads
of our days with a word.

Look: the crocus pierces winter’s shroud,
a fragile lance of purple,
and there—his triumph.
The cross, a stark tree,
roots deep in soil and shame,
blossoms into a crown
no shadow can unmake.