what child is this?

what child is this? a poem by gregory a. milinovich

there’s a chill in the air tonight.
the darkness hangs like an old heavy robe
cloaking this quivering scene in a solemn sacred holiness.
o holy night!
there is labor in the air tonight,
in the silver streams of breath flowing from the nostrils
of the sleepy cow,
and in the heavy hanging drapes of thick, black cold.
here is a winter solstice,
a starlit symphony of silence and sound,
an impending salvation.
the wind is a weapon tonight,
waging war on the skin, tearing like teeth and talon
through branch and bark.
the stars are iron bars, too cold to touch, too bright to ignore.
o holy night!
the air is thick with labor.
the seed sown in another season will feel its first frost tonight.
finally, birth emerges, shivering,
in screams and blood, with grunts and gasps,
with light and hope.
finally, life emerges from this folded night
with all the earthiness of birth
and all the mystery of heaven.
with admiration, with curiosity—with all our humanity
we approach the fresh skinned boy.
o holy night,
what child is this?