Apr 13 | The Return (Poem)

The one
stumbling from the wilderness
was not the one
we had known,
soft-spoken carpenter’s son:

thin and ragged at hem and hairline;
hands, feet, forehead
scratched by brambles,

eyes haunted and lovely

voice rusty from disuse,
but somehow full
of quiet power.

Sitting at table,
eyes fixed on palm fronds burning
in the hearth.

The loaf and his cup
untouched
contemplated.

His mother took his hand
and said

“Son”

then silent
waiting
eyes full
their bracketing lines
so deep.

His answer is soft and cool as water.

“I have to go away.”

She squeezes his hand.
“When will you return?”

Their eyes meet

The silence
unravels

for days.

 

-Clarity