The loggerhead turtle
returns to its beach,
the finch to its myrtle,
arbutus or peach,
each salmon and eel
finds its nursery stream,
but human we feel
by a face or a dream.
We unroll our charts
where we happen to be,
with only our hearts
for our compass, set free
from our gimbaling eyes
and our pinnacle souls
under volatile skies
for the wandering poles.