The west coast of FLA. is hot in the summer but there is always a breeze and water to cool off in or so I remember when I was a child.
The birds flock to the bird feeder, some with black, capped heads and others with
It’s that time of year again. The sound of honking geese fills the air, as they pass in alignment, to the Deep South.
Rolling painted deserts of the west. Shrub bushes dot sloping hillsides. Relentless sun heats up
In the dead Of Winter, I long for Spring. In the rains Of Spring,
On the brink of leaving, To go beyond These borders And say good-bye, To all you know,
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,
In the rustle of leaves the wind plays a tune, the change of season is on the horizon. It asks permission
Inspiration is in the falling of rain, the soft coo of birds in late afternoon, the sinking of the
Pink hues from the west Filter through Snow covered boughs Leaving, The evening light
Squirrels with bushy orange tails leap about the deck. Crickets hum, confused that it’s not dark yet. The caw of a blue jay
Perhaps it is the mind separating things into this and that. Perhaps it is the mind with it’s preferences
Half a world away, I walk a narrow, stone path. In the rice fields, the Balinese people
Holy Holy Morning glory Blooming in a haze Of purple light. Holy Holy
Cold spring rain chills my body And yet, the birds fly in unison As if, it is a sunny day. The white tail deer Bounce through the ravine
When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.