April 4th, the Compass Forgets Its Duty

The 4th takes my north,
reduces my compass
to a mere spasm of air
shivering through the half‑open window
on the left side of the house.

It doesn’t steal direction violently.
No, April 4th is far too elegant for that.
It simply rearranges the wind,
tilts the light,
and suddenly every certainty
I thought I owned
is leaning slightly to the left,
like a picture frame
hung by someone who swears
they used a level.

The day moves strangely,
as if the earth itself
is trying not to laugh.
My compass needle twitches,
embarrassed,
like a shy animal caught
doing something undignified.

North becomes a rumor.
East forgets its lines.
South sulks in a corner.
West pretends it never mattered.

And all the while,
that thin breath of air
slips through the window,
a ghost,
a whisper,
a reminder that orientation
was always an illusion
we politely agreed to believe in.

April 4th knows this.
It watches me fumble,
smiling with the dark amusement
of someone who has seen
too many humans
trust too many compasses.

But there is tenderness in the mischief.
A soft, ironic mercy.
Because losing the north
is sometimes the only way
to remember
that movement was never meant
to be straight.

And so the day continues,
quiet, skewed,
gently disobedient,
a lesson disguised as a breeze
on the left side of the house,
telling me that direction
is overrated,
but drifting
is a kind of truth.