Poetry About Compass

The needle trembles over the faded map. Wind worries the corners against my knees. Every road is quiet beyond the printed edge. Still, the small red arrow keeps its counsel. It cannot tell me why I ought to go. It only names the direction I have chosen.

Begin where certainty starts to thin. Wind worries the corners against my knees. The ordinary carries a hidden pressure. Still, the small red arrow keeps its counsel. We stay until the deeper pattern appears. It only names the direction I have chosen.

The needle trembles over the faded map. Hours pass, but the image does not leave. Every road is quiet beyond the printed edge. It returns us to direction, uncertainty, travel, inner guidance, magnetic pull, and choosing a course. It cannot tell me why I ought to go. The day continues with a more attentive heart.