His triumphant return



The lights were on

the door slightly open

people milling about the porch

it was an autumn day

and the breeze was crisp the leaves



joining with the earth to crunch

as we walked over them

not missing them

or avoiding them

walking to the side to crunch them

beneath our boots

His return

that was why the cider was hot

the cookies still warm from the oven

his return

the prodigal son

standing on the porch with the milling throng

watching the ebb and flow of humanity showing

and closing openings

we are waiting

for his return.

The hours spend themselves like beer bottles at a ball game

piles and piles


there were only three


for his return

we stand there,

next to piles of hours

and crunching leaves

wondering why we cannot leave

wondering why

he cannot return.



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