AT ADVENT

No ash, fire nor snow
at advent
will answer me
in my knotted tongue
moving all raindrop shadows
of my reaching safety
against the woodland trees
belonging to hidden branches
on a higher rung treetop
as a young poet
treading in the frost
below motioning riverbeds
gets himself lost
by an Evergreen's path
his initials once scrawled
on a tall shade grove
sleepwalking as if in the hollow
of a small birdsong chorus
under nightfall's flakes
grackle voices awake
to discover the poet
at the cooling rock garden
by the breakable dawn
finding precious stones
a sparrow left me in silence
yet searches in a dark wood
and chooses the cleft of light
below the flooded blue hills,
while a pack squirrels
no stranger to my memory
appear of the forest
their shadows in the grove
gather up acorns
crossing by the river
seen from nascent blood moon
a boy hides by church windows
just before the dawn silence
travels by the upstream footbridge
a young dreamer
within every horizon's desire
yet he climbs on Jacob's ladder
over hyacinth which rose
through shadows of flames
for human life knows us
to pardon even the snake
walking by many ocean stones
on the shore's ivy hedges
searching for any bread
beneath the leaves
in an hour of silent wonder
among nests of dry bones
as a solo bird by the light house
in faraway suspended wings
forsakes his luminous invocation
the hidden wind grieves for us
reaching out on high steps
we are daily wrapped by dunes
wishing an invitation to believe
we rise with the dead
on the last day.