Poem: “Prodigal”



No need of loaves to multiply,
The wheat and oven I supply,
Nor flesh compounded by My wish
For many now the nets of fish

But scarce as winds beneath the sea
Master-perfect poetry,
Rare as robins on the moon
A singer who can sing in tune

And so I will proliferate
As loaves the crowds of Hebrews ate
By verse and stanza songs of praise
On which like suns the few may gaze

There is a famine of the string
Which plucks itself, begins to sing

August 1, 2011


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