When I grow really old I may have to do yoga Full time, to get out The aches and creaks. When I grow really old

Lately, a sadness pervades, I mourn for youth, perhaps passion of younger days. With age, some of that passion

Walking down the dirt path, Sounds drift on the air, Birds chirping, leaves Rustling, dogs barking. Interconnection of life

Holy Holy Morning glory Blooming in a haze Of purple light. Holy Holy

Old friends walking on the beach, the waves bring in, memories, of carefree days;

White heron skidding the blue, grey water, of the bay. How free and easy you make it look,

Red bird perched on a tree limb laced with snow. So happy to see him and the joy he brings.

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

Pink hues from the west Filter through Snow covered boughs Leaving, The evening light

The white snow lay gently on the ground in a swirl pattern. The sky, a slab of smooth grey stone.

Sometimes wonder about a star, way afar. How life might be in outer space,

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

Half a world away, I walk a narrow, stone path. In the rice fields, the Balinese people

Many thoughts in the mind, Some productive, some not. They glow like fires, Created by needs and

The white snow, thin Like sand, over The fields, blowing Across the road. My car rambles