Red star of Bethlehem
blooms in the seam of winter.
As legend goes, the same
“Flores de Noche Buena”
or
“Flowers of the Holy Night”
grow crimson
under Season’s kiss.

Carried to the cross
by a little girl with empty hands;
nothing left to give
but the longing
of her tender heart.
And the night rejoiced,
while the Spirit danced
in Heaven’s doorway.

Streamers flew from the sky,
painted lush leaves of green
in contrast.
Emptiness ran over
its brim; fulfilled.
Despair bled into divine-
gratification, while hope
leapt to the constellations above.

Poinsettia took its place
on a rocky roadside,
red star
shining miraculous—
forever remembrance
to walk in faith;
empty hands
are always full.