The birds flock to the bird feeder, some with black, capped heads and others with

It’s that time of year again. The sound of honking geese fills the air, as they pass in alignment, to the Deep South.

This is the America I know: A sea of white, black, red, yellow And brown faces, Strong minds and voices Raised to the sun,

Easing down the gravel road, yellow leaves spiral across, like a welcome

Tonight, the wind whistles as it rushes through the atmospher… Winter’s bare limbs of swaying trees, dance in the shadows.

Cold spring rain chills my body And yet, the birds fly in unison As if, it is a sunny day. The white tail deer Bounce through the ravine

The chimes outside the pottery studio ring like a temple bell, calling the faithful to honor,

Walking on the edge, Between awareness and sleep. Sometimes... I’m in the moment, I feel my body,

In the rustle of leaves the wind plays a tune, the change of season is on the horizon. It asks permission

Life is a day dream So they say, With every beat Of my heart, The gate to love

The lines in my hand, Were read once, By a gypsy, who Predicated a long life... But with many interruptions.

What is truth? It’s a changing sky, One day clear, The next, cloudy, Holding the blue and grey,

On this New Year’s Eve Direction lost Drifting like blowing snow To and fro. A freeze comes

Unable to be all things For all people, Perhaps at one time, I tried. Those days are

The dance of fear, Of not being enough, Stops and starts. The unknown, an Uncharted sea,