all most

the sound the air makes sonoma the fall, of wet, the blue pacific, fog this time of year cast up by the sea blown here by the wind in my ears, breathing with hope, the chill, of seeing new grass, thru wet eyes for someone, wanting her near me, but now she fades in me the way the fog fades within my reach and the last line is now to have a thing to do

29 September 1974