Set-Point
The seed has never seen the sky.
Dark, damp, and no map but weight.
It cannot tell you where up is.
It can only turn from where it isn't.
Tip it left, the root bends right.
Tip it right, the root bends left.
Stand it true, and nothing bends.
The pull is the same all three times.
Only the angle has changed.
The farther from true, the harder the turn.
The nearer to true, the quieter.
Nothing is pushed.
Something is corrected.
No one sees the set-point.
It is not a place, and it is not a mark.
We learn it from which way the root turns.
A poem. It makes no claim. What it borrows is set out in the key below the poem, with its status.