A woman in top hat and tails offers a white balloon
to a man sitting on a stone bench.
He taps the balloon with his thumb
as the woman sets it free. It floats
across the dirt path on a light breeze.
I open my satchel, retrieve a sheet of buff paper
intending to write a letter
to someone living
until there are no words
left available to me. That is what I imagine
as I sip peach tea, while a dusty
North Country mist lingers
at the kitchen window, gray
Lake Champlain just beyond the sea wall
calm for now. I believe
I’ll wait until tomorrow
to write to a mime in California
who is often in bed
until noon, living close
to a grove of Santa Cruz cypress.
