Poems of Advent: Week 2

Exploring the Dark Waters

As I mentioned in my last post, I’m continuing my Advent practice of writing a poem a day based on one of the prompts I made in preparation for Advent this year. Our first guests of the season arrived this week, and we will have guests in our home through the 30th, so finding pockets of time for solitude, reflection, and poetry writing is proving more challenging. You might notice I’m posting this a day later than I had hoped. Such are the days I seem to be in right now. Still, here are the poems that came from this week’s prompts, in all their first-draft glory. I’d love to hear what resonates with you, or what doesn’t. As always, if poetry isn’t your thing, feel free to skip this one. One more week of Advent. Here we go.

---

 Advent 
is the sigh
of an expectant
mother, counting 
the days until
her child
comes.

Advent 
is the sigh
of an exasperated 
people, waiting for all
to be made right.
Your kingdom 
comes.

Advent 
is the sigh
of the darkness
stretched thin over light
just before it breaks
and morning 
comes.

Advent 
is the sigh
that is exhaled
upon the whole world 
when the breath
who fills us
comes.

Advent 
is the sigh
of relief for all
as newborn lungs fill
and the cry of
the Messiah
comes.

---

The roots reach 
deep, deep,
deeper down still
into the darkness
where there
the anchor holds
the stump firm
from which the shoot
springs and we
are grafted in.

Held in the darkness 
we are rooted here
and grow.

---

Will we still
	celebrate the light
		when the darkness is gone?
	delight in rest
		when sleep is no longer necessary?
	follow rhythms
		when time is a thing of the past?
		
What stillness will we have
		when all is made new?
		
Will we still say
	we still have each other
		when all is reconciled
	or will our need be transformed
		when we are?
		
Will we still
	cling to what we know
		when our knowledge is made perfect?
	hold cupped hands to be filled
		when we ourselves are full?
	walk in the light
		when we've reached the destination?
		
Will we raise our voice in song forever,
	holy, holy, wholly rejoicing,
	or will we still be still
					sometimes?

---

Nourish us for the days to come,
Waiting in the dark for justice.
Bear light and bread,
saffron and cardamom,
As we wait out our days
In the darkness with death and decay.
Lend us your eyes that we may see
Your voice that we may praise,
Your hands that we may serve,
Your crown that we may bear light,
Your dowry, Bride of Christ, 
that we may nourish those around us, 
as we wait in the shadows
for the dawning light.

---

Peace wears a blue gown
with generous folds,
enough to drape over
shoulders, envelop to hold
worry and sadness, internal
unrest, with arms open in welcome
saying: You are safe here; stay
as long as you need.

In the dark womb of peace
even anxiety grows 
into something birthed 
as beautiful.

---

How long does it take 
for a star to form,
to live its life, 
expend its warm,
to make its way 
in cold, dark space,
to find a path, 
mark out its place?

How long does it take 
for the fullness of time,
generations to trickle
down David's line,
for the days to get shorter
'til the light's all but gone out
for Mary's whisper in silence 
to feel like God's shout?

How long had God planned
for that one star to guide
wise men to Christ 
from far and wide,
how long is His patience
that a star would be born,
that a people would wait
unforgotten and mourn?

How long, O Lord,
will we sing this song,
how long will we look 
to the sky and long
for guidance, for hope,
for your return, 
to follow the star
in which your light burns?

---

In the early morning moonlight
the frosted ground shines
and I step through the world
on twinkling stars. The sky

beneath my feet, I stand
on promises given to ones
long gone and ever present,
by One whose promise out lasts

them all. A cloud witnesses
my winter walk, diffusing
dim light and I can just barely
make out the starry path

before my feet. I step through 
storied constellations in Advent 
dark, departing from the path
familiar and well worn. Five months'

pause and I sit on the frozen edge
of the glassy sea where at least one other
has broken through. I join her there
and we sit in silence, among the stars.

This is no place for the excited chatter
of first time mothers, decades overdue,
longings frozen in time, melting
beneath prayerful knees. The ice

was not so thick that God could not
break through and we, in the stars
and the dark, sit in the deepest silence
our chattering teeth allow. It is time

to go in, prepare the room. Light
will be here soon, carried on the sea.