Compass
       

One morning at the lake's edge
you find the rocks arranged
in a compass shape,
some stacked in cairns,
some dropped akimbo,
some crossing, some ringing
the cross. You love it, and are angry
all at once. Who was here?
What thief of privacy loves
art, and leaves notes?
The air flows over the lake
and is, as usual, blank,
white, waiting
for the ringing marks
of hammer and nails
(three cents a pound).
The cabin is more
than an idea, less than a thing,
and the leaves' notes fall over it,
an inordinate music.

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Copyright © 2014 Luc Phinney All rights reserved
from Compass
Truman State University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission