( first appeared in The Lyric )
Earth willed itself to turn a perfect day,
and lost all bearings by imperfect poles.
Then, seeking points to settle axis sway,
it deigned to whirl beneath your mortal soles.
All wobbling compass needles stopped, held firm
to indicate your geographic mark,
as echelons of geese bent wings to turn
and navigate a truer southward arc.
You chased the tropics into arctic seas,
and froze the doldrums under ships at sail,
soon prompting eerie, sunburned-penguin pleas,
with me, a sailor, iced within a swell.
Tread softly, love, and place your steps with care,
for where you set your foot, the world spins there.