Compass (Notevember 2021, #16)

Where are you pointing me?
Not true north, nor magnetic.
Shooting ever lightward are peas,
coiled around the pointer like Spring
Pulling, I hope, in warmer directions
Or to better times

The wind rose
The vines swayed,
                  grasped,
                  searched,
dragging me along.
I carried this lode-bearing device,
trusting life to find a way

There will be a point of no return
A place to grow
Bright and glittering
               A
            spire
              to
           climb
Tendrils wrapped around it
like hungry threads
planted there by a spinning needle
Where the compass will say ‘here’
and the heart will say ‘home’