White falls early, surprise
invasion from sky, burying
gold, our gold, in winter’s
grip and I tell Farmer Husband
I won’t fold up autumn quilts flanking hearth,
won’t yet gather up leaves and pumpkins
swagging the mantle,
or cut greens and berries to deck the halls
just yet, but I’ll wait ’til he mines
the last of our claim,
claims the last of our nuggets,
brings in the last of the harvest.
And Child cries words to himself, a wandering
lament that there’ll be no Christmas this
year, no Christmas, no waiting
for the Christ Child since
we’re still waiting
for the harvest
and I fold quilts,
exchange pumpkins for cedar boughs
and Child laughs joy and Farmer prays
for the harvest
of hearts,
real gold found
in the babe of the Manger
and the corn stands waiting
out in fields of white,
deep in our hope.
Part of High Calling’s Random Acts of Poetry on Fridays
*Related: Marcus who writes too at High Calling responds to this lament with his own moving Christmas lament as he attends a friend’s funeral… He and I are talking about waiting and hope and grief and Christ over here. If you’d like to respond or discuss, I look forward to meeting you over there.
Photos: Rachel Grey, Hope Voskamp, Ann Voskamp, traipsing round the countryside together, gathering gold in rivers of white
