Holding the Sextant - Tombstone Chronicles XII Zephyr
Holworks Music
|
Holding the Sextant
A song story by Mark S. HolmanThere are no satellites where he’s headed.
The clouds have rolled in thick, covering the familiar stars he once steered by. His phone shows no signal. The paper chart only says “maybe.” But in his weathered hand sits his daddy’s old brass sextant — solid, cool, and true. It still fits perfectly.At noon the sun hangs straight overhead. No shadow to hide behind. No word left unsaid. He levels the mirror, brings that fire down low, and measures only what he knows — never what he wishes.Four decades of freightliner miles under a German sky. Running hard, never asking why. Silver now threads his beard. Oak rings circle deep in his soul. Somewhere along the way he learned the hardest lesson of all: navigating isn’t about control.Windsong taught him to listen.
Eddy taught him to wait.
Second Wind taught him to give thanks.
The Doldrums taught him how to take what comes.Now he stands on the deck, holding the sextant up to the noonday sun, then later to the evening star, then to the harvest moon. He’s not asking it where to go. He’s asking it where he is — and where he’s been — so he will know.The grandbabies look up at him with eyes that ask who these old people really are. A soft cat’s-paw wind fills the sails, humming steady and true. The instrument doesn’t chart the future. It simply shows the course already sailed: every scar, every mile, every quiet victory.This isn’t GPS.
This is grace and brass.
Sun and horizon and a piece of glass.You don’t steer by the place you wish you were.
You steer by the place you are.
And that much is sure.So he keeps holding the sextant — kitchen lights glowing, bicycles waiting for country roads, milkweed pods open and spilling gold seeds into the wind. No finish line. Just an open road still left to hold.It never tells him where to go.
It only tells him where he is…
so he will know.
|
Holding the Sextant
No satellites where I'm headed to
Clouds been covering the stars I'm used to
Phone says no signal, chart says maybe
But my daddy's brass still fits in my hand, baby
Sun at noon straight overhead
No shadow to hide, no word left unsaid
Level the mirror, bring that fire down low
Measure what you can't make, only what you know
I'm holding the sextant up to the noonday sun
Trying to get a fix on where I have been, where I'm from
Horizon steady, mirror true, bring that star down low
It doesn't tell me where to go — it tells me where I am so I will know
I'm holding the sextant
Freightliner miles, a German sky
Four decades running hard, never asking why
Silver in the beard, oak rings in the soul
Learned late that navigating isn't about control
Windsong taught me to listen, Eddy taught me wait
Second wind taught me to thank Him, Doldrums taught me take
I'm holding the sextant up to the evening star
Trying to get a fix on who these grandbabies think we are
Cat's paw coming full sail humming wind is steady and true
It doesn't tell me where we're going — it tells me what we went through
I'm holding the sextant
This isn't GPS, this is grace and brass
Sun and horizon and a piece of glass
You don't steer by where you wish you were
You steer by where you are — and that much is sure
So I'm holding the sextant up to the harvest moon
Kitchen dancing bikes across the country soon
Milkweed compass open, seeds all gold
No finish line, just an open road to hold
It doesn't tell me where to go — it tells me where I am so I will know
It tells me where I am so I will know
- - Mark S. Holman
x |
|
 |
|