Advent poem


ADVENT 1819
I am the vision

of my children yet unborn,

the rosebuds

in their eyes.



Here pink dawns

purple days,

an insurance

for nights

when indigo hands

might be assassins

painting murals

of revolts,

the confirmations,

annual advents

which open,

which close,

which respond

which call

the white noise

of disappeared promises.



Grand expectations

of oil

of water,

of frantic climate,

of wrath,

of yesterday tomorrow

I am the vision.



Jerry W. Ward, Jr.            December 10, 2019


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