Danse Macabre

"Lie on the floor, children, lie as though you were sleeping."
It is the autumn of the year.
The leaves rustle and heave like the blankets of a restless sleeper.
Drift down in a slow rain.
My grandmother travels the house on fragile feet.
Smooths with feeble hands the flutter of her pulse.
She drifts between waking and sleeping as the leaves glide down.
In class today, we listen to the Danse Macabre.
Children laid low in little heaps turn earnest faces upward.
Through their tousled bright hair gleam eyes wide and interested.
I watch the faces, open and eager, fearless and fresh, wondering at Death's violin. 
These wigglers, these fidgeters, these pokers and gigglers, lying so still.
The little bodies are huddled in pitiful rows, scattered like leaves.
"Listen, children, listen for the rattle of the bones. Listen to the striking of the clock.
For the crowing of the cock."
O childhood, O mortality, why this throbbing ache in my throat?