Pocketful of North

Pocketful of North

I used to be a weather-vane for everybody’s storm.

Spun by every passing wind, by every shifting form.

One half-smile sent me eastward, one cold shrug dragged me south,

Till I forgot my own true name and borrowed someone’s mouth.

~~

My plans were maps without a key, all coffee stains, and a guess.

I’d follow any dotted line that promised more or less.

But every road of “tell me who to be” ran back to fear.

And left me stranded at a sign that simply said, “Not here.”

~~

So I went hunting quietly for something small and true,

Not thunder, fame, or destiny—just one uncluttered clue.

I found it where my pulse kept time beneath my collar’s cloth:

A tiny pull, a steady tug—a private, patient north.

~~

Now in my pocket, close to lint and half-forgotten change,

I keep a compass made of 'no' and 'yes' and rearrange.

It doesn’t bark directions or demand a perfect course,

It only tilts a little when I’m drifting from my source.

~~

When crowds declare their southern gods or westbound ways to win,

when neon arrows scream “this way” and billboards preach of sin,

I slip my hand inside my coat and feel that subtle turn—

A quiet needle pointing back to what I know and learn.

~~

It’s not that I don’t lose my way; I do, most every week.

I still say yes too fast sometimes; let comfort mumble speak.

But now my lostness has a limit, not a lifelong oath;

I check my pocket, feel the pull, and walk back into the north.

~~

If you are spinning, friend of mine, on other people’s roads,

I hope you find your small true tilt beneath the heavy loads.

Not someone else’s gospel, not a louder, shinier fourth—

just one whisper in your chest: “Here. This way. Pocket. North.”