Deep in the slog and blear of human hours,
a carrion mood oozes through your brain
and shows you your death as a strange child
who raps the door and stands, calm and plain,
lilypad-silent when you answer the door.
You cannot read his eyes, but they are filled
with mute mischief maybe, or boyish idiocy,
conceivably love. His posture is shy and proud.
Curious pity drags you out to see.
You step outside; he darts into the woods.
Azaleas shoot their slobbering sprays of white.
You chase his tunnel of dew and petal-tatters
to find him squatting in leaves and moldy light,
pointing at your footprint filling with water.