Here’s a man.
Here’s a man of speckled porcelain,
staring out the window, in a place
they call the Burrow.
If you look closely at this man,
you’ll see a slight glimmer
to his left, as bright
as a reluctant ghost.
He watches the night simmer
till it boils down to nothing:
the birthday of somebody lost.
        His birthday, in fact.
He lets nobody light
the candles; and no one
brings the cake, and no one
wishes him - his wish is so exact.
His mother’s smile, they say,
is by a half slimmer. His wife
has but been given only half a ring.
    Half and half and half
and half of everything.
        Here’s a boy.
Here’s a boy so small
for a boy six years old.
A boy a lot shorter than
the feathered sticks he flies.
And here’s the boy, approaching
the man, who hasn’t slept.
He holds a something in his arms,
a wriggling little something
he has kept for this day.
        –What have you got there?â€
the man asks, and you can see
on his face, an anticipation
in the old, unforgotten way.
–A squirrel,†says the boy,
–a birthday gift for you.â€
        –It is red,†the man murmurs.
–I tried to make it blue,â€
the boy replies with shining eyes.
–Red is better,†says the man,
now a little full.
(The night has boiled to nothing
but the reddest of sunrise.)