Its face, as calm as the air,
holds an invented world
of trees and a trembling sky,
and I’m looking at a garden
as far away from my eyes
as if I lay underwater.

What the seers and sibyls learned 
in their rippling mirrors no one
can say for sure. A dropped stone
would send it flying and show
where the earth begins again.

All I can ask for answers
from what I see in my mirror
are the shades of apple blossoms
over which water striders
lighten the touch of bees
against the mud of heaven.