The Call

By Lucille N. Anderson

Yesterday, or so it seems,

I heard my mother call,

“Come home now, dear.”

And pleading, childlike,

I begged for time to finish playing,

For I had just begun.

“Please, not yet!”

She understood and, smiling,

Granted one more hour.

Seasons passed; my life was full

Of love and sweet content.

Suddenly, “Come home,” I heard,

And pleading, childlike,

I prayed for time to finish living,

For I had just begun.

“Please, not yet!”

He heard and answered

But did not say how long.

Remembering, I sometimes fear

That as todays are spent,

My borrowed hours

Are worldly, wasted,

For I may hear, perhaps tomorrow,

“Come home, just as you are.”

Ready? Worthy?

Too well I know—

No time to finish then.