Prodigal Son.

PRODIGAL SON

   The frantic hullabaloo began with you
   galloping up the steps to our waiting door.
   Your talk was fast and flash, it rattled and flew
   from roof to rafter, from window back to floor.
   Hardly a word escaped our open mouths,
   hoping to make its calm, considered mark,
   when ten of yours lit off on other paths
   like bats come out to forage after dark.
   Your stories covered many a risky land,
   what drove you on was still that early death.
   My kitchen thoughts were just what came to hand.
   The racket warmed us from the winter's breath,
   a winter long and bitter, true to form.
   We stand to shield you from your threatening storm.