Walking under stars,
I am held by the deep night
and wonder
that the world can be so quiet,
so gentle,
so good.
I have become hard,
battered by grim news, loss,
the noise of many fears.
Once I was a child,
who watched wide-eyed
in candle's golden light
as my father's hand 
set tiny shepherds in a toy stable
where a baby was.
Can I make a place for that infant, still,
come to the quiet,
and believe?
     -Timothy Haut, 2015