At the lighting of the candles of first advent
       you are on your way to meet the rooms
warmed up by your childhood and to greet
       the new-born execution of your birth.
Every year the same old scenes are visited.
       Each wayside, batch and tuft of grass demands
a dividend from your remaining shares.
       Every year the issue is sparser than the fence
fallen on the vacant building lots; porch-lamps
       fade a little sooner. Nettle fields are thinner,
salmon rises lazier. Value comes from tithes
       of candles every Sunday on our graves
a hoard we’ll not inherit, for all will be consumed
       filling up the emptiness our size.