Читать книгу Destination Bethlehem - J. Barrie Shepherd - Страница 13

There is a mild portending in the air

this last November morning,

a persistent wish

that, with tomorrow’s wreath

and purple candles, at least something will begin,

or should I say, “begin again.”

Almost eighty of these now, after all,

and still—like weary Simeon—

I’m scanning faces for him, seeking, hoping,

perhaps fearing.

If he did come in the end, how would I know him?

Would there be certain words exchanged,

a knowing look, even a fierce embrace?

Might I have already missed whatever is to come,

failing to recognize the fathoms, deep beneath the daily pageant?

Or will this be the year when ancient word and melody,

rich color, and the candled scent of evergreen,

bear light to life and everlasting joy

within these timeworn, aching bones?