There is something about a rooster
that senses a turning
before
colour smudges the bleak horizon.
There is something about a rooster
that shrieks a turning
before
my snug body budges from bed.
There is something about a rooster,
astride a manger,
that nudges our turning
toward the pain
before
a woman shrieks and God’s tiny head crowns into the world.
There is something about a rooster
that pleads our turning now
long before
the Lord trudges condemned
across the courtyard.
There is something about Advent
that awakens the possibility of
re-turning His gaze
unashamed.