Compass
In a dense forest, trees huddle,
sharing their lineage of light
and companionship,
in the company of things
rooted or in flight,
where everything knows its home.
Our footsteps merge
with fallen leaves—
a disappearance,
not the same as being lost.
Our compass needle nods,
while our pine-needle path
weaves stanzas
into evergreen.
An invisible bird sings along,
with notes like breadcrumbs
marking the way
and we trust
that even roots unseen
somehow know the sky.
Marso writes poetry shaped by years of living in different cultures and by a practice of paying attention to ordinary life.
Amethyst Review 