O, my soul

I am the father, returning

from a long day, clutching 

his rumpled sports jacket, dragging 

tired feet behind bruised ankles, bearing

the growing weight 

of a briefcase brimming with words 

on paper jostling cough drops, now leaning lazily

into the chair-back next to the bed

where you are, O, my soul;

waiting for me.

I am the mother, waiting

poised before the table lamp, silhouetted

within the kitchen window pane, peeking

through the one-way glass

of his adult world, pining

for a place to be someone seen

and known, skilled enough to shape another,

with strong hands, gone limp in the lap

where you are, O, my soul;

waiting for me.

I am the child, free

to curl into myself, free

to learn to laugh, free

to know to cry, free

to hold myself, tight-fisted

and free, to give what is not mine

back to a world that swallows 
innocence whole, dousing the hearthstone

where you are, O, my soul;

calling me home.