They say it’s wrong to
push a parable.
Figures of speech are still
themselves responsible for
their tendrils — though these stray.
Words have their life too, won’t
compact into a theorem.
Take the story of the Prodigal Son:
an invisible third son is not mentioned,
yet he had it all
had prized it all
wanted all of it
for all so
had himself to leave
it, all.
But this one is the only
visible one. He
tells the family’s story,
a simple tale but
somehow unresolved so that
its tendrils cling timelessly.
Through his eyes we see
pathos in their wanting something else.
Fool’s gold restores
a starveling’s taste for
a healthy meal of bread, at home;
or, (the older brother)
wanting something —
because deserving more than
this dogged servitude?
(Yet from the outset
the “mine,” the “portion that is mine”
had to be less than all.)
All those were
dear to the one who
owns and gives and
loves on.