a floweret bright

The electronic sign at the downtown bank declared fifty-four degrees fahrenheit. The reward of a long afternoon walk inspired me to wrap up our morning agenda cheerfully: bank, library, music lesson, music store, fast-food stop, math corrections, school assignments, and turkey in the oven.
On the hill where the maple grove stands, I met my neighbor. He is a regal pileated woodpecker and we have made an unspoken agreement: if I stand absolutely stock-still, he will calmly continue his important work of chipping away rotten wood to obtain his lunch. The riotous blaze of sentinel red flaming against gray bark held me spellbound. (I used to stay away from the word spellbound because it smacked of witchcraft to me, but now I know that the entymological root of spell originally meant any speech, including a sermon. I can live with that.)
There is no snow or frost anywhere in the woods. The wick of bright green dotted the forest floor, displayed as mossy carpet on rock and log. I was contemplating how I could lug one home to admire when I spotted a different patch of growth: a nest of verdant fern. I tramped through the spongy leaves to inspect it closely. Now, it wasn't the miraculous fern from one of my favorite books of all time (Where the Red Fern Grows), but I was impressed at its audacity to spring up in the face of winter.
A diminutive Chinese urn holds the last sprigs of summer in its grasp, gracing our mudroom hutch with the proof that people like me need to be surrounded by the promise of life. The act of walking, plucking, arranging, and displaying felt distinctly liturgical to me; the kind of Advent celebration that my soul must have been longing for.

Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung!
Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung.
It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter,
When half spent was the night.

Isaiah ’twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind;
With Mary we behold it, the virgin mother kind.
To show God’s love aright, she bore to men a Savior,
When half spent was the night.

The shepherds heard the story proclaimed by angels bright,
How Christ, the Lord of glory was born on earth this night.
To Bethlehem they sped and in the manger found Him,
As angel heralds said.

This Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,
Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere;
True Man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us,
And lightens every load.

O Savior, Child of Mary, Who felt our human woe,
O Savior, King of glory, Who dost our weakness know;
Bring us at length we pray, to the bright courts of Heaven,
And to the endless day!