For Tere, because this is the second blog

I remember the first line

Of the first poem I wrote:

"It is autumn here and the afternoon

Is shy and lonely and cold

And the many memories

Are tarted with mercies."

I hear the chanting now

Of "Amazing Grace."

It is Sunday here and the homily

Is bland, incoherent, useless,

The kind of word that does not create,

The kind of word that jabs at vacuities.

The vagaries of seasons are ever-present

In my first blog as well as the second,

The first one like today's fall,

The intention clear as the crystal

From a morning dew at the tip

Of a newly cut grass,

The result a failure, unpublished

As it was like the wash of day

In the Palos Verdes, the place

Overlooking creation and its absence

In the surging seas of our hearts.

This is the second blog.

I pray this will last.

Torrance, California

November 7, 2004

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