rps brought this beloved poem to my attention this morning. I had read it many times before, but hadn’t thought of it, really, as pertaining to advent. Now I do.
The poem feels appropriate on this cold November day in Durham, when rain falls steadily and pastes leaves to the grass and wet pavement. And it feels appropriate always, on any day, when the familiar runs toward the mundane and we forget to keep watch for the magnificent.
Black Rook in Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers
in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather
some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly
complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects
now and then–
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate
I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape);
skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know
that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you dare to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s
begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
-Sylvia Plath
