Compass Poem by John Kucera

Clouds and storms hover
Over us like a lost thought.
A strange idea we once had—to build a log cabin together in a world beyond our own.

But our lives were surmounted by menial tasks
and we never got around to our plans like the campfire and the hang-gliding
and the paintings of a dry winter and the hiking in Australia and the umbrella of youth closing slowly on all of them.

Later we remember
in our circles of routine.
We were both deserted but they were forgotten;
Our plans, like the compass above a rooftop and the wolf we patted at the Indian neighbor's house, guiding us like a real thing can.