Searching for Hope in the Season of Expectation

 

I remember the smell of incense,

the swinging censer, the tinkle

of the bells, the feeling of holiness

and expectation at midnight mass.

That year my sister, age seven, 

played Mary in the school play,

her long blonde hair falling

down her back, as she fussed

over Baby Jesus, making sure

the blanket covered him.

I had an exciting secret: that year

I painted a room in the basement

and set it up as a playroom for her.

All was expectation and dreams,

back then. Now my pleasures

are quiet ones: the coloured lights,

the thought of traveling

through the mountains

to the farm, how my sister's dog

will get so excited at my return,

how I will visit the horses, in their stalls,

their breath making soft clouds

in the chilly air. Their soft noses will whuff

at me, searching for carrots.

Inside, a warm fire, the aromatic tree

with all the lights, giving the dog

her Christmas toys.

Once a time of anticipation,

it is now a quieter contemplation,

following the familiar rituals

in a topsy-turvy world.

Some of us watch talk shows

where the women are glittery,

talking about Christmas parties

and gifts as if nothing has changed.

The rest of us watch the news: tornadoes,

devastation, reporters shaking their heads:

"We've never seen anything like this before."

The earth, frozen and packed,

following her eternal cycles,

still holds the promise of

life and new growth: seeds

suspended, awaiting the
warmth of spring;

small fur beings huddled

in hidden caverns,

sleeping through the cold.

Mother Earth,  resting through

the dark winter, as the season

turns and turns, waiting for

humankind to awaken

from our long sleep.

at earthweal we are contemplating advent poems for earth.