December 8, 2019Advent on South Hill
When I can’t tell if the sun
is technically up or gone,
I walk the loop of my neighborhood,
embracing it with footprints.
We dread the dark here, though
there’s light from some lampposts
and maple leaves reminiscing
how brilliant they were before
they dried and thickened in our gutters.
I miss what is lit from within.
I wish I could say there are
goldfinches here even in winter
and maybe there are—
I haven’t seen one but the bird book
says they nest in Washington
year-round, molting from gilded
to woolly grey suits at the end of summer.
I wish I could find something weightless
or buoyant to hold. When it gets cold,
finches ditch what dazzles us
in favor of feathers grown solely
to keep them alive, a coat
the color of waiting, of slush,
of sleeping and waking and pacing.
My neighbors say little and close
their blinds so they don’t have to watch
the day end with me on the sidewalk,
nobody they know or want to see,
my hands empty, my face not quite
like one they’d remember.
Mornings, we glance at each other
the way I squint at sparrows,
as if to check the difference between
what I have and what I need to see,
something drab as getting by
or a gift in disguise, a song
about to burst from trampled weeds,
just one note brighter than yellow.
from Poets Respond