1-6-2019
Half a world away, I walk a narrow, stone path. In the rice fields, the Balinese people
I lay still While my loved one, Sleeps. His warm hand In my hand,
If I had all the time In the world To write, What would I say? What would be the most
My spirit communes with the four directions: To the north are in-laws, our aging mother, her last
Red sun in the morning rolling up the side of earth. The sky turned pink, as a ball of fire showed it’s strength,
Red cardinal dancing On white snow, How regal you appear With your cloak of red, How it cheers my heart
Remember the night we took your mother’s car and drove over the skyway bridge? The moon was a bright light to show the way.
Red, yellow and orange leaves Fall quickly now And create a tapestry of color That fill my mind With joy.
At that magical time When the yellow moon Sets, And the pink mist Of dawn,
My heart is a good heart, It beats strongly And works hard, To keep me alive. My mind is a good mind,
Memories of my childhood Visit more and more Each day, As ghosts of past relatives Cast their shadows,
Rolling painted deserts of the west. Shrub bushes dot sloping hillsides. Relentless sun heats up
Not a word heard As the river flows Over rock, around Banks that lie Waiting for visitors.
Photos are all I have At times, Of smiling familiar faces, My family spread out. I would travel often
Inspiration is in the falling of rain, the soft coo of birds in late afternoon, the sinking of the