We are waiting, truly waiting
for warming sun,
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 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.