A prompt from deepwildcoaching:
“Compaschúli, or marigold, petals traditionally guide souls home during Día de Muertos. Imagine creating a path of marigolds.
Who or what would guide you home? What would the path look like? Where would it begin, and where might it lead?
Write a poem about the path of marigolds and the homecoming it makes possible.”
Take me by the hand
and
guide me
through these landscapes
familiar yet unknown.
I trust you
with this journey.
And though I know these
forests,
with just fireflies, the dragonflies,
and the bioluminescence
of a crawling moss
like neon cursive on a tree,
the realm I typically recognize
is unfamiliar.
But I’m not alone.
I have a hand to hold.
Many hands touching me,
reminding me
I am safe.
I follow a path
through a forest
between trees,
in the valley
between mountains.
And those who have gone
before me —
the one who turned a new leaf;
the grandfather
with the voice of gravel
and hands of smooth leather;
the grandmother
with soft hazel eyes;
the friend whom
died too young
and lived like fire —
bright and fast;
the ancestors I never knew.
They all lead me
home.
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