The poet has nothing,
mouth hanging open, staring at the trees,
lit with late autumn—seventy shades of yellow.
Words are empty, too small to contain the awe of advent.
Mary said yes, said, let it be to me.
The poet holds that small word in her mouth,
wondering what it might be to be
approached by an angel. She has no words,
angel—she’s waiting, her hands wringing
wet cloth, accordingly, and wearing
December’s early sun.