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

Great scientific minds Working for cures Of terminal diseases, The clock ticks... What is the cure

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

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

On the brink of leaving, To go beyond These borders And say good-bye, To all you know,

In the rustle of leaves the wind plays a tune, the change of season is on the horizon. It asks permission

Red sun in the morning rolling up the side of earth. The sky turned pink, as a ball of fire showed it’s strength,

Misty fog floating through bare trees. Cold waves of wind coarse through the woods whistling as they go

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.

Easing down the gravel road, yellow leaves spiral across, like a welcome

Photos are all I have At times, Of smiling familiar faces, My family spread out. I would travel often

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

White heron skidding the blue, grey water, of the bay. How free and easy you make it look,

Time passing by now In a blink of the eye, In the clap of a hand, In the chirp of a bird, In a flash of light

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