Advent

There is no lack of lack.
The air, bloodless at noon, by three
will redden where the tangled branches criss
and cross, the far hill's crown,
where rosa multiflora snags
the arms, legs, cheeks.
There is no way but what's beneath the feet.



There is no lack of lack.
The wind, restless and laden, sinks,
erases what might lead us back to where
the leaves unbleach, unmould
to ancient, ever-virgin green
or so we think.
There is no way but what's beneath the feet.



There is no lack of lack.
The trees, sapless and brute, impale
the bleak horizon and the bleaker sky.
Eyes blink. Bereft and starved,
the poor and meek wait in the mulch,
purely empty.
There is no way but what's beneath the feet.



There is no lack of lack.
The night, soundless, still as held breath,
prepares to speak. The frost air nips our ears.
Our teeth ache. We'll survive
until the lack we lack gives birth
to Nothing, All.
There is no way but what's beneath the feet.