The dense smoke rose into the air,
and with it went my prayers for my son.
He had left our burgeoning village before dawn,
hunting beaver and fox for their pelts.
I was reluctant to let him go,
but the other men convinced me
that he would be safe, and he promised me
he would not stray beyond the areas mapped.
The woods outside our village seemed dense
to my eyes, and, to my senses, cumbersome
to enter quietly as a savage hunter,
but his youth gives him powers I have not.
So, I hunker by the entrance to our village,
and wait for an answer to my prayer,
the sight of my son again, hale and whole,
and ignore the murmurs of my weak heart.
My good wife brings me clay, and I set
myself to making cement for our well,
and hope, a new prayer, that our Lord sees fit
to keep us bound together in this life.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Wordle 45 at The Sunday Whirl.