I have come to this place so many times.
This day with the choir I come to sing the Gloria;
To sigh or sing Baroque and royal notes.
December in Mississippi we awake with surprise to snow;
Its rare romance keeps the faithful in bed.
The director says in Vivaldi’s day musicians played for each other
And not to worry who listens today or how many.
The violist, who plays fiddle on Saturday nights,
Stands and stares at the tall windows before we start.
Small innuendos of light glance off the pine bowed drifts.
Today is Sunday and we are joined together
And the sundry business of church begins:
As the organ settles its score,
The stops grow and open and vibrate in the body.
As the pastor obviates all but eloquence,
The sanctuary soars with radiance.
And altar flowers tremble in the cold
And hours later echo Et in terra pax.

They vibrate, these grand cadenzas,
Translate the century the composer’s pen has passed
Along to us. The organ, its burden made light,
Strikes its bargain with the congregation
Singing “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.”
Tall windows longing backlit by the snowfall
As the Advent season’s tallow glows.
And altar flowers, attentive always,
And the weather-altered arbors
To the sermon and the eloquence
Of the cadence from the rustling choir.
Singing, singing, higher.
The musicians shuffle praise for the soprano and the tenor,
Glorious as fully stocked traditions,
As if to knock real snow from off their boots.
The obligato lifts from the score like a gift from a fancy box.
My sister says a poem is a package of words that you can give away.
It’s Sunday and Christmas is close at hand -
Then sing, laudamus te.