Milkweed Compass - Tombstone Chronicles XII Zephyr - Holworks Music 2026
Holworks Music 2026
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Milkweed Compass
A song story by Mark S. HolmanThe fence line stood brown and brittle under the hard August sun. Everything was locked tight—pods fat and sealed, the air still as glass, the days stretching the same way the old man felt inside: becalmed, waiting in the doldrums.Three weeks of silence. No breeze. Just the dry rattle of wheat and the quiet weight of years.Then the sky went black at the edge of the field.
His granddaughter’s voice cut through the heat: “Papa, look!”He felt it before he saw it—the sudden heat of the change, the pressure drop, the promise riding in on the dark line of cloud.Hold…
hold…
hold…
NOW!The pods split wide. A 30-mile-an-hour gust slammed through the Ohio flatland like a freight train. Hundreds of white, silky prayers lifted at once—milkweed seeds spinning, rising, racing for altitude. They didn’t drift. They rode. They went where the wild wind decided, not where any compass said north should be.The same wind that once put a cat’s-paw ripple on still water.
The same wind that filled a full sail in the middle of a long voyage.
It didn’t come gentle. It didn’t come slow.The old man watched them go—some landing soft in the driveway, some already bound for places he’d never see again. Sixty years of waiting, and suddenly he understood: you don’t drift through a life. You hold until the gust comes, then you ride.His granddaughter laughed, arms out, chasing the white floss as it climbed. He stood beside her, silver hair lifting in the same current, showing her without words how love works when you can’t go where it’s going.You open.
You let go.
You trust the wild wind.Don’t point north.
Point where the wild wind blows.Let go… let go… let go…
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Milkweed Compass
Fence line brown, August dry
Pods fat, locked tight, waiting on a high
Three weeks glass, same as me in Doldrums
Waiting on the wind that finally comes
Sky goes black at the edge of the wheat
Granddaughter yells "Papa, look!" — feel that heat?
Hold — hold — hold — NOW!
MILKWEED COMPASS — OPEN!
30-mile-an-hour — HOPING!
Hundred white prayers — GOIN' UP!
GUST HITS, LIFT, DON'T EVER STOP!
Don't point north — point where the wild wind blows!
Let go! Let go! Let go!
Same wind that brought the Cat's Paw ripple
Same wind that filled the Full Sail middle
Doesn't come gentle, doesn't come slow
Comes like a freight train through Ohio!
Seeds to altitude, miles in a day
That's how an old oak sends young ones on their way!
Hold — hold — hold — NOW!
MILKWEED COMPASS — OPEN!
30-mile-an-hour — HOPING!
SIXTY YEARS WAITING — KNOWING!
YOU DON'T DRIFT, YOU RIDE WHEN THE GUST STARTS BLOWING!
Don't point north — point where the wild wind blows!
Let go! Let go! Let go!
Watch them go... watch them go...
Some in the driveway, some to Ohio...
MILKWEED COMPASS — OPEN!
GRANDDAUGHTER LAUGHING — HOPING!
WIND SINGS GRANDPA — SHOWING!
THAT'S HOW YOU SEND LOVE WHEN YOU CAN'T GO WHERE IT'S GOING!
Don't point north — point where the wild wind blows!
Let go! Let go! Let go!
Mark S. Holman
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