Prodigal

Setting out is the hardest –
the swallowing of pride,
the rehearsal of words,
the recognition of what is lost.

Even the leaving of the pigsty,
the new normal,
leaving it behind and embarking
on what may, after all, prove a fruitless quest.

And then the weary trudge,
step after painful step,
a wolf clawing at my inside,
faintness from lack of food.

And the wolf clawing at my heart,
assuring me it’s too late,
what’s done is done
and can never be undone.

And just as I give in, lose my heart
to the wolf, resolve to turn back,
I look up and see him,
running hell for leather to meet me,

Break-neck with open arms,
not waiting for my weary steps
to totter to him, but racing to scoop me up
and sweep away whatever has been done.

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