Come Like the Light

by Myra Wollman

Come with the light
The scent of bergamot lifts from blue china
And I haven’t had breakfast, but when I turn
From the window-framed tumbling storm of snow
Instead I go to light the candles, four flames flare and burn—
All is prepared.

Come soft and light
There’s a table full of dishes, supper now
And slow flakes still spill from darkened skies.
Despite warm wonders—water, soap, hands that handle fragile plates with care,
Hands that softly hand the plate across to dry—
I’m barely there. Absent-minded, the ordinary miracles—breath and air,
The taste of stolen bites of bread and sips of wine—
Slip past my mind, unaware.

Come be our light
It’s midnight when the door opens, bringing a blast of cold
And a crowd of carolers stomping snow
From frozen shoes, singing oh come oh King of nations, bind
As one our hearts, and my heart is waiting for the light
But why does my mind keep returning
To all the other babies born in Bethlehem that night?
What peace was theirs?

Come this very night (Come Thou tonight)
The clock strikes one of the wee hours of the morning,
And the steam still drifts from our mugs of tea
When gently but intent the thought comes to me:
If we all are here to await your advent
Then every candle lit this longest night
And every gathering table becomes a prayer,
Come like the light, come and share this cup
Our anxious hearts are waiting there.

Myra Wollman lives in the cold north, where she spends her days in the classroom and her nights looking for comets in the starry sky.

Artwork: Still Life on Kitchen Table with Celery, Parsley, Bowl, and Cruets, Leon Bonvin, 1865