I used to think
that a
         glassy, effervescent stone,
dug up from the dirt
and spit-shined for song,
could message the moon
and undress its powers to control
the sea
from my pockets; that a
         long, cylindrical whistle,
carved from soft wood
and painted in earth tones,
could call the birds from the south
and conduct their music;
that a
         broken watch
left behind by my grandfather,
could turn the tides of
fortune into my waiting palms.

But the undulations of the ocean
      remain strange and ethereal
         without retiring
     	to the swoops
    of my hand,

for tilling the land where
the cattle graze
takes more than a rock,
        	a whistle,
            	a watch,
        	and an Ohm.