Each of these gifts we make—
walks the river
to still lake.
Mirror-shine on flat,
—but not.
For Earth is ball,
for play;
a plane not
-to-plot
-a-lot.
We gaze upon
glass shine-to-be:
The lake is curved
like lens-of-eye,
to look down here
is to see
face-sky.
Widened by
degree-of-curve,
and seeing backwardes,
we do swerve
to back-there-when,
and not to-next,
the day we wake
and laugh,
unvexed—
at last.