“Knitting Madonna”

Jesus has grown — no manger bed, no showers
of stars — to play in shade of appled trees.
For now, casting off childish toys, he reads
in passing peace amid the snake’s head flowers
while Mary knits, arrayed in cheerful gown
to greet two angels clad in pinks and greens,
as though their festive Sunday best would ease
the sombre word they bring of sombre hours.

Then Jesus lays aside his book — he knows
before he marks the angels’ hold on lance
and thorny crown and threefold nails and cross.
His wistful smile reveals he understands
the angel watching Mary grieve her loss,
his seamless robe unfinished in her hands.