If moored
Not even the swiftest ship can sail.
If barnacled
From old trips, old seas
Even a sleek craft
Cannot cut a clean path
Through new waters.
Aren't we a strange lot
Letting ourselves be mossed in,
Tied to old pilings
Unable to lift anchor
Even with the course right?
It is in the out-worn charts,
Maps of the night sky,
Patterning distorted images
That we struggle for and against
Our own voyaging.
Mind, emotion resisting
The insistent heartbeat
Of the ocean.
