True north, true home, fixed star of our multiple orientations— that toward which we'll nudge the nose of our ship, point the tip of a walking cane, guide the beams of a torch or lantern. When we die, how will we know which key will fit into which lock, which door will open, what jetway leads to a field where dragonflies are taking off in brilliant groups of silver? Once, I might have fallen for the old catechism about how all we love will be our reward in the after. But that's not a heaven I want— Instead, I just want to not have to work through this life alone, on my own.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.