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

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

Memories of my childhood Visit more and more Each day, As ghosts of past relatives Cast their shadows,

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

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

In the dead Of Winter, I long for Spring. In the rains Of Spring,

Life is but a dream, our fantasies, spill, like liquid tears that pool and vaporize into the air.

If I could go back in time I would fix my wrongs, I would sing new songs And mend all hate And open the gate

In the noble purpose of my life, In the clear and quiet chamber Of my soul, In the open and warm cave Of my heart,

When I sit And watch The in and out Of breath, Thoughts no longer

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

The dance of fear, Of not being enough, Stops and starts. The unknown, an Uncharted sea,

I lay still While my loved one, Sleeps. His warm hand In my hand,

Last night I dreamt that I floated above the clouds, above the earth and my heart

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