each year i look
at the empty space
next to me and think
maybe, maybe
at this year’s end
it will be filled
and the hand hidden
in too-long sweater sleeves
will be out in the open
and held
but each Christmas comes
and that place
is still empty
so i think
maybe next year
and wonder if
there’s ever any end
to wondering
the silence of waiting
is sometimes deafening
yet
You promised Your hero
at the first twilight
of man
when we fell
from white to black
You vowed a rescuer
and for millennia
Your remnant waited
while mankind
went mad
Your prophets told
of One to come —
hero, head-crusher
righter of wrongings —
only to be mocked
and murdered
by those fickle fiends
awaiting saving
so for four hundred years
You held Your tongue
and let them stew
let them sorrow
in silence
then You set Your stage
in the midst of wondering
then You spoke
Your King into being
in the womb
of mary the obscure
a girl-child named
for bitterness
poor and unpretentious
in a dusty
backwater town
the weaver-together
of all creation
introduced into time
as the joining
of humanity and
the divine
how ridiculous
she could’ve said
how patently absurd
yet she took You
at Your Word
never doubting
only wondering
how, not if
Your promises
would be completed
so
take the bitter of my name
take the wondering
the waiting
the impatient industry
weave them into
sweetness
form Your Word in me
Your servant-child
and if my unscarred hands
are empty
fill them
as You see fit
with Yours
