November
ends,
Winter pretends
She's harsher than
We think.
She blows us to Mass,
Where ringed in green grass,
Are purple
And one candle, pink.
Purple is lit,
We kneel then we sit.
The waiting has now
Just begun.
Four weeks, we will fast,
'Till waiting is past
And winter will
Dress for the Son.
A ball gown of white
To all our delight
And trimmed
With an evergreen fir.
Holly
with berries.
Her lips like red cherries.
All mens' eyes will
Fall upon her.
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But
winter December
Remembers November,
When harsh, she
Blew us to Mass.
Where purple and pink,
Recalled us to think
Of the Hope
In their colored green grass.
So winter's gown blows
In the wind, driven snows,
Piling high,
Making paths between drifts.
She'll seduce us to go,
Midnight Mass,
In the snow,
All dressed for the Son and His gifts!
JMJ
Long-Skirts
11/30/03
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