Boussole

Boussole

It trickles, it tickles,
fickle as an autumn leaf.
It strikes at midnight,
threading joy through grief.
It gnashes and gnaws
like baby piranha teeth;
yet hums… yet sings,
and spins its magic rings.
It’s an up-and-down,
a side-to-side ride,
a whole constellation
of wonders inside.
It is not the dark,
it does not bark,
it rises each dawn
to sing with the lark.
It will not stop rushing
until it strikes its mark.
It is the binding,
it is the grinding,
it is the endless,
spiraled winding.
It is the pulse,
the burning, the finding;
the soul’s forever quest,
its compass always guiding.