losing Polaris

Losing Polaris

You hover like the Golden Peg,
brilliant and distant, your steady light
meant to steer me, pull me into clarity’s
clean embrace. But I am a gypsy now.
In shadowed moments my hair has grown wild,
my hands rough. Robbed of my language,
my lips are parchment, my mouth a dry well.
And I have strayed from my caravan.

The wind whips my spangled skirts
and I am not eager for your guidance.
I like the forest at night, how it draws
me deeper into the violet smudges
of the unknown, pulls my eyes
from the twinkling and into the dusky dark
of webs and folded wings.
I rest beneath the balsam branches,
close my eyes until I feel the weight
of storm clouds on my brow.
Tonight I aim to follow my own True North,
led by thunder and the tempest’s blazing slivers.

Cynosura moves- its constancy overrated.
Though the drift is slight, the fact remains-
the pole star shifts, slides across the velvet sky
and another takes its place.