(2015)
Yellow finches Line the bird feeder Against Spring’ s canopy Of green and purple tapestry. Back and forth they go
This is the America I know: A sea of white, black, red, yellow And brown faces, Strong minds and voices Raised to the sun,
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,
The buck in the garden Chewing up hard earned Labor, His antlers raise, His ears perk up, as
As I age this last quarter of my life, I am fading into the background. As I let go of roles,
Holiday cheer and laughter, Multicolored lights blink faster, Music of love and good will, Grace the air like snowflakes. Tis the season to be compassionate…
Not a word heard As the river flows Over rock, around Banks that lie Waiting for visitors.
My spirit communes with the four directions: To the north are in-laws, our aging mother, her last
Birds flying here and there, landing on branches to chirp and bare, their heart. A private club among the trees with their own private code.
What is truth? It’s a changing sky, One day clear, The next, cloudy, Holding the blue and grey,
The white snow lay gently on the ground in a swirl pattern. The sky, a slab of smooth grey stone.
The misty, night rain, Soaking bare trees, Bringing nourishment. I stand at the window, A steady beat echoes
In the dead Of Winter, I long for Spring. In the rains Of Spring,
The white snow, thin Like sand, over The fields, blowing Across the road. My car rambles
The hummingbirds are buzzing As well as the bees. The Orioles land gingerly On top of the feeder. Cautiously they move down