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.
May 12, 2022 2022 Poetry Marathon 8" Mark Toney
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