a rose-complected compass

Beyond Here

Beyond here, who can say?
The jab of lightning, punch of thunder
well behind us in a sky staggered and still showing
the bruises of where we have been.

We pause a moment to stand in the foggy light
filtering through the ozone-rich, still-wet-with-rain air.

Just over the next rise, the sound of a joyful cry,
a rose-complected compass pointing beyond here.

Who can say in which direction?
The sun seemingly rising even as it sets,
twilight torn between the dawn of where we are going
and the dusk of where we have been.