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Advent Poem 

So far, the Wise Men have not  
a clue of their mission.
Preparing to prepare,
they sit on carpets in the tent
listening to the night.

One likes to cook
He is outside crouched by the fire.
Occasionally he scans the stars,
no sign yet compelling.

As brothers do, they ignore each other,
presume to know each others' minds.

The night sounds are few and scattered.
A rodent rustles; the crickets insist for a while.

Somewhere in the deep sky
A star is forming in the mind of God,
a Morning Star to guide,
to shine, to be named by.

It is silent now, nowhere to go.
The camels have chewed their cud,
the night birds flown.

They wait in the darkness for some sign.
It is early yet. There are things to learn
in the pregnant quiet.

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Tamara Jenkinson

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