All four direction lead to the center

and depart from the center.  All I can think of is a memory of the first time I saw a peacock in a small, local animal preserve.  I must have been 6 and simply marveled at the patterns in the peacock's feather.  I couldn't understand how such an elegant creature had such a shrill voice.  No rhyme, no reason to that. 

When a rainbow allows itself to become the dream,

the four directions are all contained in that private keyhole.  

 

When does a narrative become clear?

When hands move the dial to due north?  Or noon?  Or three in the morning?
When is soup perfected?  When is a poem done?  Or a chicken for that matter?
At the heart of it all, four petals, four directions.  And a kind hunger.

Ever wonder what's at the center of the four directions?

Pure lushness of a feathery sort.  And full-on color.  Verdant touches, of course.  Reminds me on the inverse of a beet salad.  Reminds me of the last line of a poem when it springs open with greening.  Guess it's time to cook some beets; finish that poem about recipe & place.