Closer now to winter
a poem for Advent
First Advent Sunday
Inexplicably, the scent of jasmine
threads the night air. Cold air.
Closer now to winter than the depths of fall.
Nothing’s in bloom but a dumpster
overflowing, and a few chimneys—
it must be the woodsmoke that thins
into imagined jasmine. Walking home,
streetlights dim, I see as far as I can think.
And here the season begins, in the dark,
waiting for the Word to emerge
like the amber glow
in a window at the end of the road.