(2014)
Twilight slides in quietly as birds fly to warm nests. Pink hues of evening reflect in the clouds. Soon the moon
Perhaps it is the mind separating things into this and that. Perhaps it is the mind with it’s preferences
Driving through the small towns of America, children of all colors playing in the streets, some with tattered clothes
Not sure what to write while the world is on the brink of another war. While others face
Pink hues from the west Filter through Snow covered boughs Leaving, The evening light
Not a word heard As the river flows Over rock, around Banks that lie Waiting for visitors.
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
Unable to be all things For all people, Perhaps at one time, I tried. Those days are
Birds flying here and there, landing on branches to chirp and bare, their heart. A private club among the trees with their own private code.
Just a small part of me wants strife to go away, to return to a kinder time. Am I just losing courage? Life is draining me,
In the dead Of Winter, I long for Spring. In the rains Of Spring,
If I had all the time In the world To write, What would I say? What would be the most
Looking at my journal’s Blank page While geese fly by and honk A greeting. The red cardinals
As we shared stories, The warm hum of voices heard, A cup of love spilled.
The dance of fear, Of not being enough, Stops and starts. The unknown, an Uncharted sea,