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

Grateful for: Sunrise of pink and gold Showing the way, Lighting the sky, To another blessed day.

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,

When you are not here An empty heart full of fear Arises and wonders If I will see you again. What will I do without

Driving down the road, The song, “Let It Be” Came on the radio. Taking me back to Various scenarios.

Holy Holy Morning glory Blooming in a haze Of purple light. Holy Holy

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

Not a word heard As the river flows Over rock, around Banks that lie Waiting for visitors.

It’s that time of year again. The sound of honking geese fills the air, as they pass in alignment, to the Deep South.

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

What if, The simple things In life, were the Most important Events.

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

The white snow lay gently on the ground in a swirl pattern. The sky, a slab of smooth grey stone.

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