(Poem #17 on new numbering scheme)
A Soteriology On the subject of grace Forty-eight years passed. Each had a Christmas. But they fell away. They left a raw taste. An empty cup waited. There was no coffee. Just the cream stain showed. It made brown circles. The dawn was coming. So I stepped outside. Rhythms painted my feet. The cold earth took them. Now, small windows burn. The same sun returns. Old snow reflects fire. Later, night awaits. Trees were desolate. Dark gray branches forked. Lavender clouds flew. Magpies scolded me. Breath took the gold sky. The winter air curled. The ground was frozen. I found a brown leaf. Someone picked it up. We all want answers. Nobody will say. So give your own voice. It's metaphysics. Behold the universe. Embed the subject. The self makes the real. Grace is an ether. Grace is ungiven. There is no giver. It is yours. Take it. - (2013-12-25).
