Second Sunday of Advent--Violet

Magnificat by Luci Shaw



I am singing my Advent to you, God: How all year

I've felt your thrusts, every sound and sight piercing

like a little sword--the creak of gulls, the racket

as waves jostle pebbles, the road after rain--

shining like a river, the scrub of wind on the cheek, a flute

trilling--clear as a knife, the immeasurable chants of green,

of sky: messages, announcements. But of what? Who?



Then last Tuesday, one peacock feather (surprise!)

spoke from the grass; Flannery called hers "a genuine

word of the Lord." And I--as startled as Mary, early,

at your arrival in her chamber (the invisible

suddenly seen, urgent, iridescent, having put on light

for her regard)--I brim over like her, quickening. I can't

stop singing, thoroughly pregnant with Word!