The tang of juniper, the dew-wet grass
That grabs your ankles, apples for the taking.
The haze between the hills like smoke at Mass.
The trees; His stretched arms aching.
The flickering lamps, the fire, the curtains shut.
We’ll watch TV, we’ll get the breakfast baking.
We sleep like snow that’s frozen over but
We’re bleary-eyed in waking.
The beer on the table with the week-old fruit.
The shovelful of rain, the lake ice breaking.
As Advent passes, Christmas follows suit,
And even love needs making.
—Daniel Rattelle
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Realities of Empire (ft. Nathan Pinkoski)
In this episode, Nathan Pinkoski joins R. R. Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about his…
Can Liberals Be Pronatalists?
Last year the United Nations Population Division predicted that global population will peak in approximately sixty years,…
From Little Rock to Minneapolis
Recent reports and images from Minneapolis reminded me of Little Rock in 1957, where attempts were made…
