I search and find no fig trees, Holy One,
to carefully examine for the tenderness
of shoots emerging, wondering at when
the season of renewal will arrive.
The season here are subtle, Holy One,
where even trees deciduous will drop
their leaves at, well, at random times
and flowers bloom whenever in the year they like.
Except for the plumeria whose blossoms mark
the summer, and the cattelya blooms of May,
and… well, you get the point, O Holy One.
As subtle as the seasons are, they are.
And so, I ask of you a sign of season’s change.
I weary of the signs that selfishness is God
and ruler of the world. Yes, Jesus can return,
as far as I’m concerned, this very day and hour.
I know the signs that mark approaching spring.
I know the signs to tell of human sin.
What signs should I remark to tell of your
approaching grace? What signs proclaim your love?
A poem/prayer based on Mark 13:24-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, First Sunday of Advent.
Photo of late-blooming plumeria by Eric Anderson.