Catch, says Future,
And tosses me the World.
I turn and find the Past,
Waiting for me the World to cast.
Instead, I send my gift a-sailng
To the Unknown, whose mystery is yet unfailing.
The Game progresses,
And the World flies back my way;
A few bumps and dents mar its pretty face-
The victim of hands working just behing pace.
The globe has been dropped a few times this day,
But finger-pointing is no game to play.
Past to me, me to Unknown,
Unknown to Future, and a glimpse I am shown.
As the World spins on trajectory in midair,
My mind sees the orb's colors fair:
The green, the scarlet, mixing melodically,
Give rise to the thought- this World's but a Fruit!
From verdant stem to waxy surface,
Its' perfection glares through the bruises;
An Apple this day I do toss,
With three others who call it the World.
I pass it on and wonder
Which name is most appropriate.
