Poem January 10, 1983 Issue

My Father's son

Luke 15:11-32

EVELYNNE B. SMITH

I watched him leave so many months ago
His face expectant/eager, all aglow
Forgetful of the field wherein I stood
sun-beaten, dour.

What right to quit our Father's house
With barley to be sickled
And reapers/binders at the stalks?
I will not leave You, Father. No, not me,
not for one hour.

And now he comes again and You rush forth
As though he were the favorite son
And I the wasteful riotous one.
Dancing, song for him You choose
And ring and robe and shoes
And what for me? What is Your word?

All, Father? All is what I heard
And now I weep
I thought I stayed with You (no thought to roam)
How many ways there are to leave Your home!

Petty, mean, cheap—
I cry not now in jealousy or ire
Or fear that I am not the honored son
These heated tears are for that selfish heart
That now knows brother/me are one
Indeed I took a longer trek than he
Thank God—Father—You also can love me.

EVELYNNE B. SMITH

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