A poem I wrote for the ritual waiting of Advent ... Immanuel Absent trumpets, the Visitor makes itself known. A sword has pierced my own soul. Unsettling snatches of angelsong whisper an impossible promise of intimacy. A seed lies quiet in dark loam, potent. Not pebble-hard ... flea-hard, maybe. Penetrable and resistant. A seed on unseen cue shrugs out from confining skin: a soft, insistent tearing of tough husk. How exquisitely silent must we hold ourselves to hear the rending of self as Spirit takes up residence.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 12:20:12 +0000
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