Geese scream the pond’s surface out of smoothness
a hand re-wrinkling the bedsheets.
To skim the season off the top of the lake
and hang it in the panes for a way to look out.
To look-out from the balcony to any god’s hand-mirror
and see the sky’s jigsawed countenance on the ground.
The rainfall that fell there, falls up, regives.
What isn’t earth, isn’t air, isn’t fire is.