I see the ebb of your small life
preparing for a new season
you have turned amber gold
as you fly on the wind
luminescent in the morning sun
as you join your tiny breath
to the great murmur of earth
sweeping across the landscape
here in the december of this sad year.

I always thought prodigal meant
profligate, dissipated, or debauched -
such unpoetic but robust words.

There’s the story of the prodigal son
the young man who got an early inheritance
from his old father and left home
to spend the wealth
on ******, and sinful living
yet when he returned home broke and broken
his father received him with open arms and tears.

Sadly I can identify with that son
having spent so much
in such a way
over my lifetime.

But a man told me it should be called
the story of the prodigal father,
the daddy whose love for his son
was utterly lavish, reckless, and generous.

Oh, to be a man
with such an extravagant love!

I told the wise old man I didn’t like the word, “sin.”
     He said:
          “My son, remember the Greek
          an archery term – to miss the mark -
          no human always hits the bulls-eye
          just practice your aim
          train your muscles and eyes
          so next time you release the arrow of action
          you will come closer.
          Practice practice practice, my son.
          Don’t wallow in shame
          it will bog you down.
          Instead, stand up, pick up arrow
          check its feather
          raise bow and arrow together
          open your eyes and again take aim
          release yourself from darkness of blame
          and again join the human race.”

Don’t wait
til it’s too late
take time to love now
don’t put it off til somehow
or sometime I will find the time
to spend a moment with you, to speak
to listen with great attention and reflect
on what you say to find your soul and connect
with it if just for a moment a moment of eternity…

A tragic result of this virus
is our fear of others’ breath,
of being right next to death.
Yet when poets breathe
it is the words they leave
that render light and life.

May we again
on our faces feel the wind,
a gale of passion
a tickling breeze to tease
our imaginations and wit.
May we soon smile
or even laugh in a little while
and be close enough to hear whispered
a naughty limerick
or an intimate loving verse.

If I were to reflect on my life
with books
if I were to spend the time
such a reflection deserves
I would be here for a week
seeking just the right words
to speak the inexpressible gift
of authors who gave their love
to finding themselves
binding themselves
to an idea
that deserved
and emerged
as new life.

The sheer volume of these gestations
trumpets and sings
anthems and hymns of grace
broken through inside the human heart.

I would not be who I am
but for their inspiration
and daily dedication
to pressing pen to page upon page
so I could turn a new leaf
and become all I was meant to be.

Books are acts of making love
right there on my table
day after passionate day
long after many have passed away
from the mornings they woke up
to this work, this play
with words
that would open worlds
for me and millions
to create something
ordinary or magnificent
for our presents and futures.

I bow to these small lumens,
authors and makers
who birthed their creations
and bound them together
from genesis to revelation.