Not so very far from
the door You stand, You,
source of my life, my strife both.
You stand between here and there,
and yet ‘stand’ is not quite right:
You whom I chance to meet with
the breath of a child, in
the wrinkle of the aged, on
the hard, smooth surface of
a rock – grandfather, grandmother.
I do not know You and yet I know You knowing me.
Come, sit with me a bit.
Let our breath be as one, so when mine
ceases, death is bested by love.
Let our seeing be as one, so that hope
finds a fallowed field seeded with tears.
Let our hearing be as one, so I finally
hear the trees, the stars, singing You,
in my hearing, seeing, breathing
You.
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The line about the fallowed field is especially appealing. I’ve always thought of Advent as a season of laying fallow: so bleak, but so necessary, for the new growth to come.
In numbers and voices, too, you can hear the music of the spheres.