The Prodigal

I come back to a place gone poetic,

A New England already battening down

For a long warm fireside winter

With frost on the windows and lights on the town.

I come back, and the autumn is over;

The leaves are in tatters and rags,

And they’re stacking up wood for the fires

And raking the fall into bags.

I come back to the place I belong in,

And it’s cold, but we like it that way,

And there’s nothing like home in the winter,

So I’m back, and God willing I’ll stay.