Wild and holy the days come and go like the currents of freedom
that push clouds in spirals, into big
— heavy — rain drifts, into seas and rivers and tin cans set on porches.
How is it that I am here, on the precipice of Christmas singing
“joyful, joyful” into hollow rooms that echo back
(wait, wait, the joy of the Lord is yet to come)
The wise-men are still walking, the shepherds have yet to be surprised (read amazed).
In Alabama the fields of cotton are turning from white-covered masses to brown. The rakes are loading autumn into bags and leaving it on street corners as they run, open armed into
The wind presses.
Not here yet.
Supposed “winter” silences the streets in somber melancholy
(wait. the joy of the Lord is yet to come)
but it is warm here.
the tree is lit with hope and promise and tinsel leaves sweet shadows on the wall around it.
beside this, I sit in my robe, only thinking — a rumor of his coming
and I wait.
The wind pushes.
the joy of the Lord is soon to come.
The men are still walking
The angels are practicing all the notes that they have
The shepherds are trying to stay awake
and I am here, in the wide folds of time, heart eager and terrified.
The joy of the Lord is soon to come.
and the day slips into forgetfulness, another day lost to the mind.
He made the wind his messenger