On this stroll I am full of Sisyphus comparisons:
“I am the burdensome boulder upon your shoulders,
grace an endless mountain you must roll me up!”
I drag my soles; I see tendons like taut ropes…
Yet I stop mid-thought to watch a child crouch
at the path’s edge; his mother walks on, cloud-gazing.
His boots are red and his knees are skinned,
and in his palm, a caterpillar writhes.
He is still except for a cowlick that flickers,
eden-eyed enrapture for this beloved creature.
Death’s walk is blocked by gentle fingertip touch,
and the caterpillar remains safe in hand’s hollow.
Then, a distant call; his mother beckons with a wave.
Off-path, in cool new grass, he places the crawler in shade.