First Sunday of Advent

   boots (Isaiah 64:1-9)

so shiny you can see
      your glory in them
   as you pull them on,
         the perfect accoutrement
      to your beribboned uniform
   with medals from the Roman,
      Babylonian, Egyptian campaigns,
your two-edged sword grasped
tightly in your hand . . .
   . . .so tear open the heavens
   and come storming down, to plant
         those boots precisely
      where we are convinced they
            are needed;

but instead, once again,
   (to our embarrassment? disgust?)

you pull on your waders,
   towing that rowboat behind you,
      picking up all those folks
      left behind when the
         stock market dams burst
   open;

you take your wellies
         out of the mudroom,
   heading out to the barn
      to feed all those
      we forget in our frenzied
          gorging on more,
        mucking out the floors
        of our hearts to make room
   for the little One;

your faded and scuffed slippers
fit comfortably around your
             feet,
   as you get up and put
      the kettle on,
         putting a plate
      of cookies on the table,
   pointing us to the chair,
   whispering,
         'why don't you sit
         down and tell me
     all about it?'

(c) 2011  Thom M. Shuman