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

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

An owl hoots on this cool, crisp Spring night. A sound that’s distant yet echos

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,

If I had all the time In the world To write, What would I say? What would be the most

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

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

As I enter my sixty-third year, Fall leaves grace the path I love, With hues of red, Gold and orange.

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

Silver sliver of the moon With the bright star of Venus Trailing behind. Moonbeams casting light On the waves,

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

On a walk, many Brown-Eye Susan line the border, before the woods. Rain clouds move closer as if to give a hug, while

Last night I dreamt that I floated above the clouds, above the earth and my heart

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,

The hummingbirds are buzzing As well as the bees. The Orioles land gingerly On top of the feeder. Cautiously they move down