I wrote this last September, while feeling weary. It seemed that creation, too, was tired, and waiting for consolation.
The stones of the eastern wall are weary;
Dew drips from the roof with resignation:
Come, come; when will he come?
The bones of the trees ache with age
And the wind grows weak and cold.
Pale light sweeps the battered creation—
It is John the Baptist, come with his lamp.
Knees aching as he climbs the horizon,
Still he ascends to his pulpit.
one more day, one more day.
He will come, he will come soon.