One True North

I am only my road, my winding route,

you are the mango orchard beside it.

You’re the languid afternoon, heavy with fruit.

You are the absence that makes the music –

the blowhole and openings of the flute.

An orchid-white jet contrail, I’m hardly there

once the craft has flown, easily confused

with a daub of cloud. You’re water, and air.

The one true north, the point where all routes are housed;

my broad breathing earth; my paved city square.