To think…what is lost?
Her heart invents reason;
reason, an art, being enough
to call a wayward child home.
I bend a knee to that invention.
No longer prodigal, squandering
valued blood over ground
littered with fragments of
young bone.
Welcomed at the gate
my thoughts are a procession,
a chorus singing me back
to this world.
I have come to think
nothing need be lost.