For Advent, via writinginthedust:
from the neighbor’s pond, bounding beyond
her swung broom, across summer lawns
for that. I’m not one to whom offerings
often get made. You let me feel
weeping in the dark
over the usual maladies: love and its lack.
directly to him and with such
conviction. And only once you grew frail
dozing against my ribs like a child.
You gave up the predatory flinch
birds and slow-moving rodents.
Now your once powerful jaw
It hurts to eat. So you surrender in the way
I pray for: Lord, before my own death
let me learn from this animal’s deep release
into my arms. Let me cease to fear
the embrace that seeks to still me.