Sextant

There's always someone whose bright eyes I catch
And sometimes more than one inside whose smile
I lose myself, from whose wild wit I snatch
The jests that help me elevate my style,
In whose sweet radiance I seem to while
Away unnoticing the hours, from whom
I gain more than I give, and yet who'll file,
Or seem to file, me in her grace, whose plume
Of laughter spouting upwards will subsume
All of my petty quarrels, for whose mirth
The world itself seems not to have the room
As if her jouy could overflow the earth
And flood me under. There is always one;
I navigate by her as by a sun.