Saturday, December 4, 2010

According to Your Word

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.

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