(A prodigal returns)

It had been a long time and, with trials enough,
I felt my failures too keen.
I couldn't go back 'til I'd done something right,
A good thing that they hadn't seen.

I needed a story 'a little bit true',
I needed to save my face.
But, fate took over and I had to go home;
I prayed they would have enough grace.

For, now, I was ill and hungry;
Too weak to work for my food;
The path home seemed so far away.
It took all my strength to just move.

On the way, there were scenes that I knew so well,
From my childhood memories.
They stirred my heart and I swallowed hard,
But kept on movin' my feet.

It was springtime, with birds all singing;
Familiar melodies, to me.
I saw the broken rope 'of the swing'
That had brought so much laughter and glee.

At every step, I listened.
The meadowlark made his call
And the bluebirds sang with such passion
Even that made me feel small.

I should have called home before leaving.
Was I making this journey in vain?
I wondered if they would have mercy enough,
For I had left them with pain.

Then, I noticed the little pathway
That led through the sheltered light,
To a small abode in the woodlands,
Where I would explain my plight.

I sat down, upon a fallen tree,
To gather my thoughts ~ what to say?
I wanted to run, but I couldn't do that.
I prayed for a merciful day.

When I came 'round the rise, I saw them there.
Dad was splitin' some wood ~
Mother, of course, in her apron
That was holding all it could.

I took a few steps on the pathway,
Feeling my legs would give way.
My Dad looked up, caught his breath,
And ran to my side that day.

Mother pulled off her apron and
Followed him to my side,
"My son, my son!" both of them said.
And then, for awhile, we all cried.

The path home is where there is welcome.
The people are still the same
And you needn't make excuses,
It doesn't matter who was to blame.

Each day, I search for that narrow path,
With such beauty, along the way.
Love and grace. and mercy,
Beckon to me, every day.

I know when I make the pathway Home
My only true course to go,
I will find the core of the Truest Love
That leads to the streets of gold.


© 2011 by Joan Clifton Costner
http://harpsuponwillows.mezoka.com/