advent

Now is the time of waiting,
the hours of music in the womb,
of fields swept up, covered in sheets
of snow. Gathering, sheaf and boil
is done, now jars gleam with dilly beans
and gemmed berries. Lone cats paw
through the garden. I think of you
and gather seeds, each one a womb.
In the spring after the last frost
I will scatter them over freshly turned
soil, scented richly as coffee. But for now

They lie ponderous in my palm
and I am full of their weight.
Holy winter, heavy with waiting,
grow in me a green thing
strong as grapevine.