The Map

There is a map in me;
a great spirit hid it,
mapping a world
round with perfection,
complete, whole,

Some days I wonder its worth,
this map of a world
that could be
but isn't.

Looking down at the earth
in early spring,
the land is like elk hide,
brown and lustrous,
the mountains veined
white with melting rivers.

I clutch the map
to my heart
though it is older
than me,
and won't be lost
even with my death.