Driving through the small towns of America, children of all colors playing in the streets, some with tattered clothes

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

The many places I have been And countless faces I have seen, The many tales to be told, Into the universe, they unfold. It’s all a passing show,

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

Ambition seems overrated at this time of life, effort seems more like strife. In my youth I was motivated by a hungry desire

Squirrels with bushy orange tails leap about the deck. Crickets hum, confused that it’s not dark yet. The caw of a blue jay

Embrace that which comes with ease: The twinkling of an eye, The drumbeat of a heart, The blooming of a flower,

Oh billionaires! How you have lost your soul, lost the goal and kneel down

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

Every hour we are someone Different, Every day something new Learned, Death is just another

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

Red, yellow and orange leaves Fall quickly now And create a tapestry of color That fill my mind With joy.

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

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

Come with me To the mountain top, Where the crest touches The sky And the air so pure,