Prodigal

A blackbird keeps watch
 From the top of a tall cedar,
 His feathers glossy
 In the early spring sun.
 A dusty road spills from around a bluff,
 Which casts a long shadow
 Across the greening fields.
 There he comes,
 This lean, broken boy
 Who has spit in the eye of the world,
 Who has swaggered as far
 From the farm in the boondocks
 As his old man’s money could take him,
 Who has danced with the devil
 Till he was nearly dead.
 He is defeated, bent, hungry, lost,
 And there is only one road left to try:
 Home.
 He is afraid
 That he has burned all his bridges.
 He has nothing good
 To show for these months away.
 He is prepared for a locked door,
 A dead end.
 And then he stops in his tracks
 At a ruckus up ahead,
 Stops to grasp this miracle of a thing.
 It's the old man himself,
 Racing through the dusty sunlight,
 Arms wide, crazy with love.
 Tears stream down his wrinkled face
 In pure, plain joy.
 "My son," he blubbers
 Into the boys tangled hair.
 Even the blackbird knows
 That this is heaven,
 Or as close as it gets around here.
 He fluffs his warm feathers.
 Sings, sings.

--Timothy Haut, Deep River, CT