The Ides of November brought hurricane winds and a three day power failure. I stood at the kitchen counter preparing dinner before it got dark and watched several of my grandmotherly pines bend and bend until they snapped, rebounded up and crashed to the ground. It was a good time to stay inside by the fire and put pen to paper. I had made pages of notes and two weeks of fruitless attempts to write a poem about Advent for the coming Word on the Hills holiday taping. A day of enforced leisure resulted in an acceptable draft, since polished and appended here. More interior work is shared on a link in Happenings
Advent The coming starts with the going of the geese in noiseless flight, solemn thoughts about the broad, black-shouldered night, and the long shadows even at noon. With a sigh we sink into the earth’s brown study, cocoon in duffel wool, count the days until the advent of… whom? what? A smile, perhaps, at first soft snow, pure sugar-coating, while under our mittened hands the first snowman rises to lead the charge with a broom. A time to sweep, perhaps, and polish, shake out, decorate the room, bring in the out of doors, the ever-living greens, the silver sparkle of the stars, red apple happy children’s cheeks. Who arrives? For whom do we open the day’s doors? Come we to them, or they to us? Exciting packages and cards appear, scents of baking rise to warm the house, at every turn we hear choir-song and silver-tongued bells, as each evening falls around us candles bow and curtsy, curtsy and bow. And then… on the last long night we arrive with grace at clear, bright understanding of how our own newborn halos are still ablaze, our own gift is love until the end of days.
