When it fell the scatter was neglected, pieces
skittered under the upright’s boards, some near

the cellarette, others sober at the impact. Lethargy
ignored the folly. No one near to hear the cry of anguish,

pieces no longer molded into one perfect orb reflecting
lights from the tree. A glassmaker’s work finely executed,

delicate in it’s balance, golden glass thinly formed around
nothing but breath. A globe – the size of a well-made snowball

ready to be blasted through the night at an unsuspecting
passerby – this shiny rondure once held the glory

of its artisan’s expiration deep inside. A knock,
a paw batted in boredom, a curious hand reaching

to snare its glow, shards lay unable to be one
as the maker decreed, brokenhearted. I face the night,

early in its arrival, cold, preparing for the warmth of his
breath. I await his advent to become one again, human like me.

Author’s Note:

Today I am surprised at the darkness of my Third Sunday of Advent poem. Maybe it’s because of the time cycle I chose as the vehicle for this Advent series. Today it is dusk, not dawn or noon as in previous poems. Maybe it’s my fear of the night and not trusting in the dawn to come.

In Richard Rohr’s Preparing for Christmas, he explores two halves, Spirit that makes two into one and the diabolical that tears into parts.

I am pulled down into darkness by my own brokenness and inability to see His light within me.

I believe the purpose of Advent is to help me make room once again for that which was there in the beginning, His breath.

His Spirit is within me, I am one with Him. This is the glory of His birth, he became like me to show that even through my brokenness, He is there and I am His light in the world.

Click on the links below to read my other poems in the Advent cycle:

Honeycomb   Advent/Noon

Convergence  Advent/Dawn

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