It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Wayward Compass

the compass hums in her hand—
not north,
not south,
just toward.

its needle
quivers like a dowser’s rod.

“useless,” snorts the cat,
“unless toward means tuna.”
the robin, nostalgic for linearity, chirps:

“back in my day,
we had four whole directions—”

“shush,” smiles the old woman,
planting the compass in the garden
to see what grows.

by midnight,
the needle has sprouted
into a sunflower,
its face tilting toward
the stars.