Two miles from home a terrapin crossing
        highway 127 on a day, with drops of rain under a broken sky,
        begs me to pull to the shoulder of the road when I found
        beauty in motion but danger calling out for
        rescue. I gather up the terrapin and release it where I

        believe it will survive.
        At Sunset Marina I sit at a table, watching
        white capping wave turn gold against the dock,
        Lashea, my waitress, blond, blue eyed, friendly,
        is beautiful, but does not match the young lady,        

        four tables distant, watching me, I’ve
        seldom seen dimples so defining , watching,
        until our eyes lock, 
        she is youth surrounded by old age, unfriendly,
        this poem is for that young lady,

        and for sunlight 
        and even for rain that falls in the poem I write.