The Draw

Do we ever question what holds the eye
of the pigeon homeward bound
when he could so easily nest in any
convenient tree?
Yet, by some inward law his heart is fixed and sound,
and never will his wings find rest
until he's chosen the best,
until he reaches his goal, his destiny.

Or do we still stop and wonder why a compass
is always faithfully drawn
to true north? It always moves
with unquestioned consistency.
It matters not the time or season, neither night nor dawn;
but by some unwritten law it "knows",
no matter how the winds may blow,
to its only rest it turns, reliably.

But still I have to ponder why
there exists in me such law
that continues to gravitate northward,
ever homeward, with such certainty.
Yes, I've rested in others, but even then so strong the draw;
and nothing seems to still
the magnet-like pull I feel
to my one sole rest, my home in you.

-Unknown


(I came across this poem in B.'s grandmother's old recipe file, of all places, in her kitchen. It was originally written to a girl, but I left her name off here since it made me think of home!)