I wrote this as a Christmas gift for a dear friend of mine. Being that it is specific to an individual, I was curious how it came across to the casual reader. Let me know.
At the End of the Day
At the end of the day Capricious sunset breezes Dry the sweat from the boy As Color, its palate extravagant, saturates the western sky
Supper made late from haymaking Wafts aromas comforting and alluring Bread was made that day And the boy?s stomach tightens
Parents, columns of security, stand arms intertwined Surveying their brood in the waning light of day And the boy knows he is safe Secure in the bonds of family
As the years pass, the boy lies under the stars Outside of the circle And wonders who he will be When he is no longer one of two
For he had come to know He wouldn?t stay That he would be the first To leave the realm of those who came before
The man remembers the boy Who gazed upon the stars and wondered who they were For he had seen the celestial lights on the other side of the world, And questioned a life as inverted as the stars.
The man, Far removed in space and understanding, Thinks back to Home And his heart fills with longing
Wintry Sunday afternoons, Maternally soothed with soft, thick sugar cookies Fortified with mugs of bracing workman?s tea Until warmth could be felt again in earthy bovine abodes
No one any longer knew of the boy In no face did he see the shadow of himself No one any longer saw him as one of a pair At times he forgot as well
The curse of manhood was the fear He had lost the way to all that was dear The blessing of the boy was the certainty that Home such as he knew could never be lost
--------------------
Compassion is the sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it is like inside somebody else's skin. It is the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too. - Frederick Buechner
If society prospers at the expense of the intangibles, how can it be called progress? -LLP
|