Advent.
This new year begins
In silence,
No fireworks, no toasts,
No whoop-de-do at all.
It is the silence
That carries us
Into the whispered morning
Of a new day,
A new season.
This time will not be
All of my own making.
It will be formed
By what is coming:
The unexpected meeting,
The bent plans,
The stranger in the path.
The jays in the swamp maple chatter,
Interrupting the quiet of my waking.
They see something ahead
From their treetop perch,
And sing.
--Timothy Haut
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