Poem: “The Wait”


The Wait

November ends
Winter pretends
She’s harsher than
We think.

She blows us to Mass
Where ringed in green grass
Are purple
And one candle pink.

Purple is lit
We kneel then we sit
The waiting has now
Just begun.

Four weeks we will fast
‘Till waiting is past
And winter will
Dress for the Son.

A ball gown of white
To all our delight
And trimmed
With an evergreen fir.

Holly with berries
Her lips like red cherries
All mens’ eyes will
Fall upon her.

But winter December
Remembers November
When harsh she
Blew us to Mass.

Where purple and pink
Recalled us to think
Of the Hope
In their colored green grass.

So winter’s gown blows
In the wind driven snows
Piling high
Making paths between drifts.

She’ll seduce us to go
Midnight Mass
In the snow
All dressed for the Son and His gifts!

Hilary M. Flanery


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