Compass Point by Jeff Burt
A single pine needle spins
in a gyroscopic eddy
near the rocks to the entrance
or exit of a backwater,
as if a compass point
that’s lost magnetic north.
Sometimes, the needle speaks,
it’s not the destination we seek,
but to get lost, to forget orientation,
to twiddle free from the true
and the false, to be lifted and spun
in the glee of indecision.
Jeff Burt has contributed previously to Trouvaille Review, as well as Sheila-Na-Gig, Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, Red Wolf Journal, and others. More can be found at http://www.jeff-burt.com