On the Advent of Advent

Labor Pains

My year begins

as the rest begin to end;

my baby new year colors in

orange and rust Crayons,

In mauve and crimson markers,

and pied pencils . . .

blending softly

the subtle shades of

sable, russet,

auburn and olive.

The harvesting

of a year’s worth

of dreams and nightmares,

twelve months of

weekly aspirations

frustrating failures

sweet smiles,

all the heart and struggles

of a year

held in straw baskets--

a bounty of a life

bounds through the

crispy soft days leading

towards a Baby in a manger,

a starbright lantern hanging

on God’s finger leads the way…

My year folds its bounty into

crimson and evergreen

blankets to cuddle the

now white Innocence

born into this needy heart, then

the grays and blacks of winter’s

monochromatic mysteries

steal my breath and
Death envelops life

in a warm comforting cloak—

so like the Beginning, but

too like the end . . .

falling asleep is simple, easy,        

when a person 
freezes to death . . .

Pain is the last mark of living,

the time to gasp and rise again

a phoenix,

the antithesis of cold retreat!

So tender a seclusion,

giving thanks and Baby Jesus,

the love they radiate

wards off the night, their birth cries echoing . . .

Death passes over

once again painted away by

The Blood of the Lamb.

When the last of the jams of bounty leave the cellar

in their reverent stained glass jars, tiny green living things

come once again to head to their golden crimson russet

ends, and Life begins.

Lively 9/2012