At night I become a lost child, wandering from

room to room, in search of that part of me that’s died.

The Prodigal Son set out to find a life of

fortune. Among the hogs he saw a blinding light.

Realizing that his heart was in chains, he cried out:

“Forgive me. Forgive me for the love I’ve squandered.”

Today rain beats down on the city of yellow

bridges. I sit thinking about the dead

who fill the rooms of my life like so many books

and furniture, collected over the years.

It’s a comfort sometimes, to sit on familiar

chairs, to read certain novels again and again.

Somewhere an old farmhouse sits beneath a pearl moon,

with a candle in the window to guide us home.