Pale blue moon Of August, Peeking behind The clouds, Luminous,

In the dead Of Winter, I long for Spring. In the rains Of Spring,

Yellow finches Line the bird feeder Against Spring’ s canopy Of green and purple tapestry. Back and forth they go

Perhaps it is the mind separating things into this and that. Perhaps it is the mind with it’s preferences

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

White heron skidding the blue, grey water, of the bay. How free and easy you make it look,

My spirit communes with the four directions: To the north are in-laws, our aging mother, her last

Inhale, the arms float up, Exhale, the arms float down, Namaste, at the heart. Inhale, the body bends, Hands at top of mat,

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

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,

Life is a day dream So they say, With every beat Of my heart, The gate to love

This evening the blank, white page is open. My nerves are on edge, while a storm forms on the horizon.

As I age this last quarter of my life, I am fading into the background. As I let go of roles,

Looking at my journal’s Blank page While geese fly by and honk A greeting. The red cardinals

At that magical time When the yellow moon Sets, And the pink mist Of dawn,