Dear, my compass by Elizabeth Bishop

    Dear, my compass

    still points north
    to wooden houses
    and blue eyes,

    fairy-tales where
    flaxen-headed
    younger sons
    bring home the goose,

    love in hay-lofts,
    Protestants, and
    heavy drinkers...
    Springs are backward,

    but crab-apples
    ripen to rubies,
    cranberries
    to drops of blood,

    and swans can paddle
    icy water,
    so hot the blood
    in those webbed feet.

    Cold as it is, we'd
    go to bed, dear,
    early, but never
    to keep warm.