Waiting for the Compass

Just a smattering of snow this morning.
The geese, on their way south, are disturbed
as you pass, fluttering madly in escape,
a beautiful sight born by fear
and an internal sense of direction.

You are moving in the opposite direction,
North to their south, alone to their gaggle,
lacking their sense of direction, of certainty
where they are going and when and why.
A wanderer, nothing more,

waiting for the compass to show itself,
content, unafraid and moving, sure somewhere
you will see the sun and shadows,
find a path that sings to you. a siren song.
and find your way.

It has happened before, this comfortable lostness.
It will happen again should you be fortunate enough
to live enough years,
a cycle, not as regular,
but sure as seasons.

About this poem

The picture was taken just down the road from my house in West Pawlet, VT.

Tom