for now – a prayer for advent
it happened so fast
this year, like it does about this time every year, every turn we take around the sun.
a movement we know in our bones that still catches us by surprise
the earth turns its northern face from the sun.
the way the light comes through the trees these days speaks of perpetual morning, perpetual evening,
no high noon, just the in-between
night, morning, evening, then all over again
and the deep darkness holds on, strengthening its grip every day,
for now, anyway,
though i’ve noticed how clear the sky is these nights
and how the stars look different now than they did when we still knew high noon
perhaps the constant coming and going of the light leads us to turn inward, to strain our eyes to see the constellations in our own dark skies, to sit with them a while, since we know the light will keep us waiting, anyway
and waiting. and waiting.
for a while, anyway
i have known high noon
i have been warmed by sun
i have sat basking in her radiance
but for now—she keeps her distance
for now, anyway, the fleeting angled glow that comes with each small turning is enough for me.
for now the lengthening, strengthening night holds on,
speaks of another turning:
a turning in the cold. the dark. under cover of night, with just the stars to guide it. a turning we know in our bones that still catches us by surprise:
the proud humbled.
the hungry filled.
the rich emptied.
the broken healed.
the whole world spinning, turning, now on its head and then upright again, and then over again. and again.
so we sit, and wait, and watch
for now, anyway
for now the turning, turning, turning bids us hold on as we sit and wait and watch,
bids us turn our own dark skies
until they are rearranged for a new season,
bids us dizzy and dazzle ourselves with the radiance within
and keep vigil in the night.
for now, anyway. for now we breathe in the frigid air
and hold in our bones the turning:
ancient, unfamiliar,
old, new,
for ever
for now.
By Kristina Sinks
