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Waiting
by
William Everett


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We are waiting, truly waiting
             for warming sun,
             dissolving rain
                        to offer up the snow to sky,
                        to open up the road to town
                        bring human faces to our door.
Advent has overturned our Christmas,
            trapped our cozy expectations in the ice,
            revealed the real time of human beings,
            while down below the crowd goes shopping,
            turning fervently the wheels of Christmas,
            spinning future into past.
Not exactly looking for the baby in the wrappings,
            voice drowned out in silent night,
            and yet we find him,
            yes, our Jesus, like a Russian doll,
                           the one with Nordic face,
                           no, underneath, the hillbilly Jew,
                           no, the farm boy from the Galilee,
                           the Yeshua,
                           the Yahweh-saves,
                           the one who never really was in Bethlehem,
                           the ancient wandering hope,
                           the tiny face a distant star whose earth we still can’t see,
What we are waiting for in ice and snow.

 

Copyright 2009 by William Johnson Everett.
Used with the author’s permission.

Purchase a framed print of this poem.

 

William Everett is a writer, woodworker, and liturgist. A former professor of ethics, he now lives in Waynesville, NC, where he says “woodworking flows from the native forests and novels emerge from diaries like mountain streams in spring.” The author of eight books and numerous articles on social ethics and religion, he has recently written an “eco-historical” novel, Red Clay, Blood River, that explores the deep connections between America's Trail of Tears and South Africa’s “Great Trek.” Learn more about him and his work at www.WilliamEverett.com and www.WisdomsTable.net.

 

 


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