The Road Home
He left with pockets full,
full of dreams stitched in the lining of his coat,
coat shrugged off like dust from his sandals.
sandals worn out on roads unknown,
unknown hands took his money like water,
water slipping through a broken jar—
jar once full, now empty.
Empty were the nights, hollow and cold,
cold as the laughter that faded by morning,
morning that came with hunger wrapped in his ribs,
ribs like a cage, holding nothing but regret,
regret heavy as the famine’s silence,
silence that whispered one word—home.
Home, where the road had never left,
left waiting, waiting like an open door,
door that had not locked behind him,
him who had wasted all but breath,
breath that now held the name of his father,
father who ran before the son could speak.
Speak—for him, there was no need,
need had already been seen,
seen in his tattered robe,
robe accompanied with vanished silk and gold,
gold that meant nothing compared to love,
love that had never turned its back.
Back was the son, though lost he had been,
been reckless, been broken, been gone,
gone, yet never beyond grace—
grace that now filled the house,
house where the music rose,
rose like mercy, mercy without end.
675 Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, Kentfield CA 94904 Phone: 415-464-3898 | Email: admissions@marincatholic.org
