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

The flesh withers as we age But our inner spirit Remains the same. And when the body dies The spirit breaks free

Red and gold leaves Falling, Sing to me Of the season of change, Before the snow,

Inspiration is in the falling of rain, the soft coo of birds in late afternoon, the sinking of the

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

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

Time passing by now In a blink of the eye, In the clap of a hand, In the chirp of a bird, In a flash of light

Unable to be all things For all people, Perhaps at one time, I tried. Those days are

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

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

Brown hawk with spotted tail, soaring on the wind, balancing like a sail. Your piercing cry

Summer is near it’s end, I regret not visiting my childhood home, near the gulf, where the sunset

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.

Sitting on the lake shore, Which made my heart soar, The water rippled at times, Swirled into beautiful lines, Clouds reflected in it’s mirror,

What inspires me... Hummingbirds buzzing as they land, on nearby flowers. Their amazing wings