The asphalt gray reflection
In a puddle
Waivers with the ripples
From each drop of rain
And that face that looks back on me?
Is it weary of the rain?
Is it weary of the days
That have passed
From blue to gray?
Will these same eyes look back at me again
When the next rains come?
The ripples offer no answers.
The merely reverberate the edge
and they are gone.
