Untitled II

To what and to where
is the mind tethered
but to its own moorings,
smashed again in a storm
before leaving port?

You would think
that at last it would tire
of finding no wheat
in imaginary fields.

Dear one, it takes time
for heaven to open,
the kind of time
it takes to moves stones
the size of mountains.

Know the mainpost of your sundial
and its vain attempt to measure time, 
feel the poor net you cast on every leaf,
every wish, every drop of honey,
in the vain attempt to draw them in.

Withdraw the deed to every field
that the birds will deign
to sing you an elegy someday.