Missionary

By Donnell Hunter

Like Samuel loaned then given back, my son,

I thank our Father for these first few years,

knowing even now when you return

your stay will not be long until you range

in wider orbits chosen for your own,

intersecting Kolob in your flight.

Yet, even if I could, I would not change

the plan. What you see at parting, these tears

I brush back from my cheek, are tears of joy.

We taught each other: surely parents learn

much more than they can ever teach a boy.

Eternal tones of Love, familiar voices,

call us gently somewhere from the darkness,

whispering through an ancient temple night.