Third Sunday of Advent


Like black spiderwebs
the branches of the ceder trees
thatch the moon-warmed sky,
doused with icy flecks,
steady or winking,
as the old ewe pulls grass
on the edge of the firelight.
We, lying separate and silent now,
our hearts still racing
mixed with jumbled private thoughts
of visions and visitations
too outsized and brilliant for accounting.
We did not speak
anymore of what we saw
once returned to our darkened fields.
The tracings of our thoughts
too broken to build
easy bridges between us.
This announcement
has shattered our night
and we inventory the pieces
of the world we once knew
and no longer recognize.

This entry was posted by Richard Beck. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply