The compass says we’re there
but I still feel the pull of something
greater, some crater
in my soul that says we’ve got
a ways to go.
We wake. We give. We grieve.
We take. We’re born. We mourn
all those lives
that could be ours.
And we must
ask ourselves
(again)
what’s truer than the stars.
::
In November, we poem.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Love Love this to bits!
“we mourn all those lives that could be ours”
sigh.
yes.
beautiful. the kind to bring us home.