Just after the first frost snapped,
my leaves were cut off.
What good can come of that?
And where strength and passion flowed from my roots,
I have been cut through.
What my bark protected
Is now exposed, and bare.
Surely there has been a mistake—
this can’t be the way to life.
I am dying!—
stripped
and pitiful.
Yes,
I feel where the tape tightly binds me to you.
And I see your magnificent,
gnarled, ancient trunk.
I hear your promise of wholeness.
And I know your winding branch
heavy with older, grown grafts.
But
I am shriveling in the cold.
I have risked everything in this exchange—
If it does not go just right,
I will be a brittle twig
crushed underfoot
before January!
I ache for what I have lost.
I day-dream about the summer breeze.
I hear the gale’s howl,
I feel the sharp sleet.
And my bark is fraying.
But
you say
the sun will come.
The earth will warm.
The sap will flow—and it will be like honey.
And these little buds in my sides will swell,
fleshy green will sprout
and juicy purple will ripen.
May this be true.
The wind is strong
The nights are long.
But
you say
your seal outlasts all the weather.
(a confession and profession for advent)
this riven bloom 