Compass
a poem a day in the month of may
Compass
He has a compass tattooed
on his chest, and I wonder
if he feels lost or
is found, looking for
others to bring home.
Who or what is his
true north, and how did
he find them for himself?
I trace the edges with my finger
and wonder at what he
has seen over the years,
where he has been
to bring him to this place,
to this moment, here with me.
His compass, whatever it means,
means something, etched
into the skin that he will keep
his whole life, etched
into the body that has been
his home this entire time,
and will be for every
single journey he takes
from here to the ends
of the earth, of himself, of us.
I've always liked the idea that
there was a tool that could
point me in the right direction,
without fail.
I'm not very good at letting myself fail.
Learning to trust my internal compass
instead of looking outward for direction -
reminding myself that
it's okay to get lost,
that maybe there isn't always
a true north to aim for -
has led to me finding myself.
Compass
Maps and tools,
books and rules,
were things I used
to help me
find my way.
Well-worn paths
and charted routes
and tour guides
by my side
didn’t get me
where I wanted to go.
Till I found myself
out in the deep,
no traffic at play,
no signs to point the way,
and the shore
nowhere in sight.
So I listened
to an inner place,
that inner place of knowing,
and although the fears were growing,
I found even the fears
had something to say.
I was not lost.
In fact, I knew
my destination,
and I found my
my compass location
within,
and it led me
to find my way
back home -
to me.