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The compass spins, a restless silver eye,
Beneath a sky where clouds drift aimlessly by.
We stand at junctions, paths obscured from sight,
And wonder which direction holds the light.
The wind, unseen, a phantom on the breeze,
Carries the rustling secrets of the trees.

It bends the grasses, whispers through the grain,
A language spoken yet we strive in vain
To truly grasp its meaning, its intent,
The unseen forces to our journeys lent.

Is it the north wind sharp and full of bite,
That urges onward through the darkest night?
A call to courage, strength against the chill,
A will to conquer, standing ever still?
Or is it southward, warm and languid breath,
That speaks of solace, tempting us to death
Of striving, lulling us to gentle ease,
A promise whispered through the sun-drenched leas?

Perhaps the east wind stirring with the dawn,
Brings tales of futures newly being born.
A hint of promise, possibilities untold,
A canvas waiting, brave and bright and bold?
Or westward, sighing with the fading day,
Does it recount the journeys slipped away?

A melancholic murmur, soft and deep,
Of chances missed, and promises we keep
Only in memory, a wistful, fading trace,
A longing etched upon time's weary face?
And what of stillness? When the air hangs tight,
A pregnant pause before the coming might.

Does silence hold a wisdom all its own,
A chance to listen to the seeds we've sown,
To feel the currents stirring deep inside,
Before the outer forces take their stride?
We seek direction in the world around,
In hurried footsteps on familiar ground.

But maybe true north lies within the soul,
A quiet knowing that can make us whole.
And the wind's whisper, though we cannot see,
Resonates with what we're meant to be.
So let the breezes dance and skies unfold,
The answer isn't always to be told.

Perhaps the wisdom lies in open ears,
And trusting instincts, calming down our fears.
For in the heart, a compass true and deep,
Knows where to go while outward currents sleep.

©bfa041325
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