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

First snow of the season Came down light and gay, With it’s bright white, Reflecting, Off slow moving clouds

Not sure what to write while the world is on the brink of another war. While others face

Mr. R. would talk about his deceased brother, he dreamed about him frequently; also of an eagle

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

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

The lines in my hand, Were read once, By a gypsy, who Predicated a long life... But with many interruptions.

Twilight slides in quietly as birds fly to warm nests. Pink hues of evening reflect in the clouds. Soon the moon

When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.

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

Her smile was like gold, Her lines were often bold, Her stories of wisdom told, In books that are now sold. She has left the earth,

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

Life is but a dream, our fantasies, spill, like liquid tears that pool and vaporize into the air.

In the bright moments My mind is a flame, Melting obstacles, Gaining gifts of wisdom. In the dark moments

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