Home to Myself

There has to be a way
back home to myself.
I have strayed from familiar borders
and stopped before going too far,
but the path is shadowed
and my steps, uncertain.

How can I call to myself
with the reminders of all
I have loved, all that
warmed me
and nourished me,
with what filled my cup
to tipping point before spilling
into the world?

I have thrown breadcrumbs
behind me, the trail back
to what is important—
a sunrise, prisms of light
atop a wave, the soft palm
of my nephew’s hand in mine.

This is the way, what is recalled—
walk in it.

The scent of lilac and laughter
will lead you home
to the table set with all good things,
seat pulled out for you,
waiting.