Little paws turn large Little days turn years Little hairs of fawn turn fur of lily-white and snow Afternoons on lawns turn To afternoons wrapped in slumber and soft soft snores We climb the stairs to Lady Time's dinner Of treats and bones Of eggs and apples Of rices and watermelons And yet, No matter Time's lecture of fleeting airs Nor Death's empirical evidence on our tears All I can hear is "Letsplayball Letsplayball Letsplayball" On recurrent reiterated recapitulated golden-eyed stares. -M.A.