Returning from the Day of the Dead

So here you are, landed,

brimful of holiday.

Yet buried still – dead weight

among the souvenirs – 

lurks a primal fear, hand-painted,

 

of one day being left alone.

 

It is a drag anchor,

has held you back too long.

 

Be well, I say. Be well.

 

Albeit fierce in its embrace

let anguish slip away.

 

Life’s a descent on scree, mostly.

Planting both feet sideways,

one hand clutches at stony ground

 

the other skyward flails

reaching for direction.

The headlong balance of braking

 

and velocity.

                    Only know

those empty places, with you in them,

shall always bloom.

 

Be well. Be well. Be well.

 

xi. 2025