(Each line of this poem begins with the next letter in the alphabet.)

Another day in Cuernavaca,
before dawn breaks the sound of traffic rises
cars zooming through narrow streets,
drivers intent on getting a jump on the day.
Even though I don’t have the impression that ambition and work
form the foundation of this culture.
Gringa that I am , it seems pretty chaotic to me.
Having said that,
I marvel at the pockets of cleanliness in this dirty city.
Just yesterday I discovered Las Mananitas, a Relais and Chateau property
kept pristine and secure behind a pink stucco wall which
lies across from the large Catholic church that I pass
on the way to El Centro, which is
my least favorite place in this city.
Nevertheless, I find that I go there a lot.
Oh, there are places here that are lovely.
Pristine surprises in the midst of squalor.
Que bueno! To find a well-maintained ancient cathedral
right across the street from Jardin Borda, where
sculptures of angels by a Mexican artist
touched my heart.
Under the chaos of the city lies a tender Mexican soul, which the
Virgin of Guadalupe, the Mother of Mexico, mourns,
weeping soft tears which
express her sorrow that the many
years of hope and caring, fueled by the
zeal of her love, have produced this.

2/17/09