When I come, I come softly

with a cat-footed tread and

a brush of whiskers. My friend

Sorrow is bitter, but I am

more like the rain -- the rain

that dries rusty on your tongue.

When I come, I come swiftly.

Young men think their days are long,

old men count their last hours.

Time sweeps you off your feet and

just when you think the ground

is solid, you hit the floor and fall.

When I come, I come surely

with arms open to invite you

to hear the last notes fading

and like the tide pulling in, I close

the curtain. Your show is over and I am

the only one who can hear the ovation.