His gods ,my gods

As rain falls softly on the gleaming park trees, I walk on the wet track
And its etched geometrical shapes move endlessly like Nabokov’s trees
Which seem to be going on a pilgrimage to somewhere all the time.
The boy in his story has drawn gods with round eyes looking at the sky
My own Gods have unblinking eyes which see everything, everywhere
Because they do not have lids, they see all the time, all the space.

(Reading Gods, a short story by Vladimir Nabokov)