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.