Days brighten as legs lag;
Christmas’ pulse confuses with
Advent slowness.
How do we find stillness in this pounding
purposeful ascent to year’s climax?
Many rushed home for the census but few
saw the signs, heard the angels, glimpsed the star.
Slowness humbles.
In weakness, in childlikeness, come.
In seasonal fluster, in these
high-pollen, heaty days, come.
In competence, incompetence,
preparedness and cluelessness, come.
The season grows that readies as you wait.
The Consolations of Writing 