The heart has a compass.
It tells where the horizon is.
It starts at the beginning
where the ground is littered
with yourself.
Sometimes poems are left there.
Sometimes a word
blows in the wind like a leaf.
Sometimes people stop
and wonder,
did a rainbow fall there?
Did a sea drain into the sky?
Did someone discover
why they were born?
Where is true north?
Barely discernible in the distance.