At first he took my hand,
But soon he was drawn away
By an irresistable puddle or log.
I called his attention
To the arcade of multi-colored leaves—
The translucent fresco—
Under which we walked,
And told him this spectacle
Was like a circus,
A performance that would soon be over.
He looked up at me
As if I’d told him
Childhood wouldn’t last forever,
Struck with boredom and disbelief,
And showed me something far more thrilling—
A mud-tipped stick shedding its own bark.

I had tried to induce vigilance
For what was passing
In someone who did not yet know time,
Whose footsteps were his
Only form of counting,
For whom a minute was a day,
A week an hour,
And ripening and spoiling
Were all the same.
To him, watches were
Still just ugly bracelets
Clocks failed pictures,
And calendars b ...

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