Not Just the Right
Somewhere between hyperbole and ellipsis,
I became lost; no sign showed the way;
the middle became mediocre and I saw
that I needed not just a road but a fire,
a path of flame, an ardent way, to find
not just the right but the holy.
My heart is unquiet
waiting for you,
hoping for your coming,
happiness held in hope
infusing my every action.
I taste the goodness that will be
on the white-stone day,
the red-letter day,
the day of our coming.
In darkness I keep vigil,
sustained by memory,
recollecting your promise;
I wait, dwelling in it,
arranging all around it.
December brings a bitter wind
that creeps up on the skin;
hurry, friend, and close the door
that lets the bitter in.
In this month, an advent month,
take thought to dark and cold;
joy is made by a well-lit fire,
so make your hearth-light bold.
No face is warmed when all alone
it walks on frosted streets;
our limbs are limbered with delight
when friends inside we meet.
Outside the sabers on the trees
grow long and deadly-sharp;
but we will drink December cheer
to sound of drum and harp!