Come home. Come now. Come home to me.
There was a life of our own; overthrown, don’t you see.
In the shadow of memories, I called out to your nights
Yet in pieces and slices, my own cries held no rights.
Come to me now, even come to me, late.
I’ve grown old and I’ve bent all the way to forsake.
I can’t give you still what was lost in the wake.
Such grieving pulled down in some eternal thieve’s take.
I could bring what I own and set table for you.
It is humble and bare, yet my soul is there too.
Come sit with me, my sons, I have so much to tell.
My heart lives here with you. Even after all fell.
©2012 Linda Willows