The Puddle

It kept following me
like the hungry goblin
in the fairy tales.
It was on the street
in front of my boots
at night, and by my
doorstep in the morning.
So dark and cool
and shiny, it licked
the earth into a luminous
pool wherever it fell.
During a storm, it cried
out to me, hissing
as millions of droplets
stabbed its soft depth.
It asked me to join
the rain drops, to become
wet and fall, warm
as a blood clot
into its cold mouth.