The Quiet Compass
At dusk the harbor folds its maps,
And lamps unbutton one by one;
A gull writes silver on the tide,
Then lets the dark erase its run.
I kept your compass in my coat,
Its needle restless as a seed;
It points not north, but where the rain
Has taught the stubborn grass to read.
So if the road forgets its name,
And every sign turns pale and small,
I’ll follow one warm window home—
The light that asks for none at all.