Mobile

Eight little silver yachts
Moored by the window
Swing in the morning air
And cast
Teaspoons of dancing light
Over the wall.

A stronger current blows.
They tug their moorings,
Bobbing and prancing,
Frantic to break loose
Into a real sea.

They have forgotten
Seas are closed circuits too,
Where mariners sail west
To reach the east:
That earth herself
And her eight sister planets
Ride like a mobile
Tethered forever
To the sun.