An Alberta wind is racing
the moon tonight, down
through the frozen fields
of flat, plain states. These
are the places I should know
by heart but can’t quite remember.
I am searching again, behind
trees, under stones, for lost poems
that might write themselves
if only I would be still for a while,
keep silent, stay in one place
long enough to allow them in.
I take the compass from my pocket,
the one you pressed in my hand
the night I left, said how easily
I could find you if only I would
let the needle point true north,
put one foot ahead of the other,
until I made my way home.