I know of no compass rose more fair
than that of my navigator.
She guides me through the salted air
and across the waves and breakers.
Though she be thorned like her compass name,
her cardinal petals bloom still
— and she be scented sweet just the same —
with each turn and searching tilt.
Point the way South, to sun-draped waves,
where breezes break on beaches blue.
Marry me in the water’s nave;
I’ll always sail the oceans by you.