Geometry of a Neighborhood

     As we walk around, our views of our surroundings change;  lines that look parallel from one view appear to be converging from another . . . and so on.  The following poem by Massachusetts poet Martha Collins reflects on such view-changes:

House, Tree, Sky     by Martha Collins

If, when the pond is still
and nothing is moved
and the light is right.
you consider the angles
and make the proper approach,
you come to a bend
where a small white house
against a deep sky meets
the same white house against
the blue water:
stair rests on stair,
door opens on door,
tree grows out of tree.

And if you steady your pace
and fix your eye on bough
or window or door, you find
you're moving on a plane,
and the depth you've lost
is the merest matter,
in the clear air ahead,
of up and down.
Walking a fine line
toward the intersecting
two-roofed house, you figure
you could be on the other
side, and that could mean
both sides at once;
you think, without beginnings,
ends or means, you might
be getting to the point.
But just as you reach out
to open the door,
things begin to slip
beneath your feet;
the sky gets out from under,
the tree retrieves
its roots, the hose recovers
its ground and you get doen
to solid facts again.
Still, your recent loss
has made a difference:
looking around,
you keep in mind the profound
surface of things.

This poem "House, Tree, Sky" is found on my shelves in Against Infinity: An Anthology of Contemporary Mathematical Poetry, Collected and Edited by Ernest Robson and Jet Wimp (Primary Press:  Parker Ford, PA;  1959).  This anthology is currently out-of-print but used copies are available at Bookfinder.com.  Another poem by Martha Collins -- "Fine Lines" -- appears in this earlier post.