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

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

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

My heart is a good heart, It beats strongly And works hard, To keep me alive. My mind is a good mind,

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

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

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

Harsh reality smacks like a slap of cold wind. Sometimes I’m a tough sailor, at the helm,

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

When I grow really old I may have to do yoga Full time, to get out The aches and creaks. When I grow really old

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

What is truth? It’s a changing sky, One day clear, The next, cloudy, Holding the blue and grey,

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

The birds flock to the bird feeder, some with black, capped heads and others with