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Son, Nonprodigal

Each time might be the last, The last I see your face, Sad and smiling eyes; the last Your lips mouthing promises, Goodbyes, eager to go, Certain of return, sure of this place. It's different when you're old. Blossoms treasured that may for you Never come again, a song of birds, A patterning of stars, Each moment bursts on consciousness And burns its possibly last But not enduring sign. Finally scorching through with Gathered, accumulated intensity, The beads fall scattered to the ground. I sit, unable to respond To the tasks of the world. Imperious spattering and singeing Like cold sleet slants against the face Burns, melts, evaporates... My son, my son, soon it will seem That I have wandered off Having somehow forgotten you.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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Date: 6/8/2022 12:00:00 PM
our children will always be our children, the only thing that changes are the way we talk to them and the way they choose to listen, if they choose to listen at all, and that is formed by the love they have or have not felt when young...my first thought after reading your poem
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Elizabeth McCann
Date: 6/8/2022 5:46:00 PM
I totally agree, Fredric. Fortunately my son's absence was temporary and sometimes in that break, a new understanding emerges. Thank you so much for your interest.
Date: 6/4/2022 6:22:00 AM
It’s not easy to let grown sons or daughters go, but parents stay in their hearts wherever they go. Welcome to PoetrySoup Elizabeth… Belle
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Elizabeth McCann
Date: 6/5/2022 2:57:00 AM
Thank you, Belle. I love your poems. I had a Frankie, too! I'll send in his poem one day soon.
Date: 5/29/2022 6:01:00 AM
Do you think they comprehend, at all? xx
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Elizabeth McCann
Date: 5/29/2022 4:37:00 PM
Sometimes, momentarily.
Date: 5/13/2022 3:29:00 AM
Beautifully sad Jo…..Debx
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