In the inky backdrop,

The stars sprinkled and shimmered.

From the open hayfields,

The narcissist watched the scintillation 

And failed to see the Hand

That wrought them all.

But, alas, in the eager search

For the urban fleshpots,

He left the rural land

And squandered his self and worth

As nights of revelry spilled into dawns;

Bleary-eyed and unfocused, 

He did not see the starry night

In the never-sleeping city lights.

There were no stars for him

In the midnight skies.

The man-made  lamps and lanterns

Faked light and shrouded starlight,

He failed again to see the Hand

That made the stars for all.

Beaten and downcast,

Totally spent, he left the city-

Bedraggled and beggarly-

In tattered rags, his hesitant steps

Carried him to his father’s gate in the country. 

Doubtful of welcome and greeting,

He yearned at least for a meal.

Yet father, waiting for the son-bereft of hope-

 Saw his child through tears

And recognized the child who came back.

With quickened steps and outstretched arms, 

He ran out and hugged 

His emaciated child in dirt and rags

And wept tears of joy

At the return of one who was deemed dead.

The fatted calf was killed

And mourning turned festive

When guests lolled in abandon.

The Prodigal walked into the open

And gazed at the shimmering starry night.

He saw the Hand that made them all!