Prodigal

O Home! The mud on my boots!

These roads

I once so familiarly tread are the furrows of my palms (like the days that soon

will also pass) my hands growing

just that many days thinner.

As the years take flight we dare their destiny.

Walking now amongst the naked trees my footsteps sprout from their winter boughs and ascend deep within the rising skies. Birds pass through my fingers.