Roger was late in coming home.
His path led through unfriendly thickets,
Into the darkest woods he knew.
He felt alone, although around him
Birds and creatures carried out their errands
With a whirring sound of wings
And rustling paws through fallen leaves.
The only light was from a fitful moon
Peering through the drifting clouds.
Out of the south came an echoing cry,
Haunting and hurrying him on.
All of the goodness given so freely
To us by the Maker, was there
For the taking, if only he'd open his eyes,
Indulging a sense of surprise.
Hastening his steps, he reached his home
Not a moment too soon and barred the door.
Just as chaff does not cling to wheat,
So Roger remembered the good and the sweet,
And chose not to think of the bitter.
But with the turning of the year
Away from summer into fall,
Roger also turned his thoughts
To grapple with the why of strife
That came between himself and his
Achievement of an amiable life.
His view of things was framed
By an implicit faith in virtue,
And so he found it hard to fathom
What others hoped to gain by treachery.
Like an oyster clasped together tightly,
The meaning hidden in events
Refused to open up to him.
Perhaps the saving grace for Roger
Was simply following his own direction.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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