A walk through the blue hour is more of a stumbling along than a journey.
The days are short, shorter still and the long night extends a frigid hand.
I step along the hardened earth, as if it were stone.
Cold breath lashes the back of the neck and chills the soul.

It’s powerful, this season of deep love and aging hurt.
I’m not sure why I stepped out of the house at all.
Hugging my bones I whisper Solomon’s prayer,
wondering— what heaven cannot contain.

With a pass under the lintels, I come inside to light the candles,
to light the fire. To cast these walls with the glow of gold,
and beams of goodness.
What the earth cannot sustain.

I wait for the icy cold that wears me to melt away.
A whisper to hurry.
The fireplace is enough.
It warms the room, from flickering crackle to blazing roar,

coming again in glory.


2 responses to “Advent

  1. Love this poem. The hour is blue in so many ways. Stumbling. That would be my experience.


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