The Compass Flower
By John Herlihy

Some people seem driven to go it alone;
Others find ways to have their path shown.
Clearly, pure mystery enshrouds all our lives,
Wrapping us up like worrisome bees in a hive.
We think we know where we are going, confident,
Only to realize we are often lacking sound judgment.

I take with me a compass wherever I go,
Nestled in my pocket, but a feather in tow.
So snug and silent, I often forget it is there;
So significant, I consider it precious and rare.
My compass informs me of directions I need to know,
Especially in driving rain when winds howl and blow.

I consider my compass sacred, an item of priceless cost,
Like my conscience ever there to consult, I never feel lost.
With knowledge fused with a light that burns every brightly;
With an inspiration that always steers my true way rightly.
Whether it be the directions of north, south, east or west,
My sacred compass never fails me; it always knows best.

Somewhere in Nature’s wild lies hidden a compass flower,
As mysterious and beautiful as any flower in Nature’s bower.
The bloom gazes north truth as a magnet in summer’s meadow,
To direct the traveler’s journey from the turmoil in life’s shadow.
The finger of God has planted this beauty for everyone to see,
An inner compass there to inform the birds, the bees, and me.