Advent: Waiting

A poem

This is the season
of waiting.

The winter trees
stripped bare by the wind
lift up their arms
and ask
“How long?”

Thin-limbed children
in parched
and war-torn lands
lift tear-stained faces
to the iron sky
and pray for sun,
or rain—
anything but hellfire.

Crowds roar
as Caesar ascends
another throne,
promising a peace
that will never come:
a “golden age”
ushered in
by the edge of a sword,

meanwhile,
the beggars sit
on the steps of the temples,
hoping only
for a crust of bread.

All this I ponder
as I sit in silence
in the dark of my room
abiding the longest night
with a flickering candle
while the winter trees
tap against the window.