There would, of course, have to be a star
—as there always is— but
only a single star, luminous
beckoning above the merest shelter.
Around the meager dwelling,
its wattle daubed with ordinary
midnight, there would of course be
shepherds, nodding, and music of
sheep bells a softly ringing lullaby.
There would have to be an angel.
The sky, a clear intoxicant, would
open and the angel would sing
and the shepherds, keeping their sheep
would have to spread the word
and be certain.
Ron. Lavalette lives in the Northeast Kingdom region of Vermont, barely a snowball’s throw from the Canadian border. His work has appeared in dozens of print journals such as The Anthology of New England Writers, The Comstock Review, EDGZ, Lynx Eye, Maelstrom, The Pine Island Journal, and Raintown Review, among others; his work has also appeared in pixel form at Able Muse, Conspire, The Country Mouse, Crescent Moon Journal, MiPo, New Works Review, The Orange Room Review, Stirring, The Writer’s Hood, and many other online venues.