The Points of a Compass

North into the wind,
Faces chapped and brittle
Against nature's fierce breath;
Powered onward by
Aching legs,
Frozen vision
And robust will.
The North is sometimes
Not a friend
And for many
It is an untimely end.

East to Byzantium
And the treasures
Of n'er forgotten antiquity;
The old world beckons
Newer humanity
With fragrances and hints
Of mysteries
Magically whispered
By voices long ago stilled
And lungs with drifting
Sands of time now filled.

Going West as Horace Greeley
Chanted in print
To a destiny manifest
For those who need their
Destiny to appear in print
Before they can know it
And accept it;
Racing into the sunset
Of newly promised tomorrows,
Leaving yesterday behind
With vivid dreams
Sweetly beckoning
And the reality
Of what is yet to come
Not yet available
To our more thoughtful
Powers of reckoning.

Steering South
Backs to the Aurora Borealis
And senses drawn to warmth.
A confederacy of
Tall white columns
And cheap black labor,
Not all antebellum
By any standard
Neither gentile nor gentle,
Smooth speaking
And minted libations
Are sometimes screens
Which conceal sky darkening rage
Wrapped inside
What a sweet sounding word
Really means.

The needle moves when
The compass is turned,
For unlike the holder
It is not expected
To change its behavior
Due to where it has been
Or what someone may hope
It has learned.