In the gardens of a Gethsemane
under the branches of a
sick sycamore tree
slept the man they called
a prodigy.

A few of the many who followed him
knocked at the outskirts of freedom
to enter in.

The morning woke crossly for everyone
and the prodigal son was
on his way home with parables to plant
in the arable land which grow better than
Talents they tell me
in the garden of my own Gethsemane