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The result a failure, unpublished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.
November 7, 2004