San Carlos parking lot
The pavement shines slippery black,
mirrored face, shone by blue haloed
in tempered, gathered cloud grey.
Who will receive another letter from me?
Cast like a bottle to this shallow sea.
Who cares this hour now?
Some say a butterfly in China
reflects my mood, knows my will and way.
Within those wings my mood is doubt.
One large yellow truck passes over
the over-passing road, and witnessing
I feel myself small, already the destination
gone past.
A door slams behind his advancing step.
I say, Pardon, do you know the time?
No watch, no hesitation, turning his key,
unraveling back my word's intent.
He says to me - what I thought was far,
gone off with that yellow ribbon lost.
The question sometimes is simply,
do you see?
As close as my hand, as my willingness,
and this pen, which touching, reaches me.
His kindness becomes my ink, which now
too reaches over winter ribbons lost.
Perhaps even one more,
and you.
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