PRODIGAL          

The trees are rattling, waving,

like they're welcoming me home.

Even the azaleas rub against

the shingles like they're me.

Window-panes, shutters applaud.

Squirrels dig deeper, more relentless,

in the soil, like they're burying

this moment of my return for later.

The dog is leaping up into my face,

trying to lick me. I'm all the

tennis balls he's ever fetched,

the rags he's chewed. Even the

cat forgoes its predator instincts,

rubs against my ankle.

And that's not even mentioning

the sun and the wind and the air itself,

all in greeting mode.

My father's in the back yard,

bending down into his garden.

He's admiring a rose the color of

blood. He's grown the one that's

beautiful. Next step is to grow

the one that stays.

John Grey, an Australian-born poet and U.S. resident since the late seventies, works as a financial systems analyst.  His poems have appeared recently in Connecticut Review, Georgetown Review and REAL with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock, and Pinch.