A Father Waits for His Son's Return

The barren road
winds around forever.
He does not come.

I watch.
I watch while the sun moves
slowly across the horizon.

My fields burst with grain;
my vines bend with the weight of the grapes;
cows crowd the pastures:
all of it is trash.

I would trade it all 1000 times
for one glimpse of his shadow on the road.
My son, my son, do you remember me?
I am stilll here.

I will watch for the day you walk down that road.
I grow the grapes and reap the wheat
so I can fill the tables at the feast of your return.