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

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

Dark bulk of a single bird, With red puffed up chest, As winter’s breeze sways his perch…

I lay still While my loved one, Sleeps. His warm hand In my hand,

What if, The simple things In life, were the Most important Events.

Misty fog floating through bare trees. Cold waves of wind coarse through the woods whistling as they go

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

Beneath the bustling, hustling mind, deep inside, there is an oasis of calm.

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

It is what it is Despite my wishes for it, Otherwise. You are who you are Despite my expectations,

Mr. R. would talk about his deceased brother, he dreamed about him frequently; also of an eagle

When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.

The many places I have been And countless faces I have seen, The many tales to be told, Into the universe, they unfold. It’s all a passing show,

Geese are honking As they fly Across an orange colored Sky. My spirit soars

When you are not here An empty heart full of fear Arises and wonders If I will see you again. What will I do without