This is the America I know: A sea of white, black, red, yellow And brown faces, Strong minds and voices Raised to the sun,

Perhaps it is the mind separating things into this and that. Perhaps it is the mind with it’s preferences

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

The birds flock to the bird feeder, some with black, capped heads and others with

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

Orange full moon with a half smile, a hanging lantern, lighting the way, through dark streets,

Her smile was like gold, Her lines were often bold, Her stories of wisdom told, In books that are now sold. She has left the earth,

At that magical time When the yellow moon Sets, And the pink mist Of dawn,

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

Standing at a crossroad Between this life And the next, Heart in hand I knock on that

Summer is near it’s end, I regret not visiting my childhood home, near the gulf, where the sunset

A path with heart Is full of love Which makes us right Brings in the light And chases the dark.

The red cardinal high in a tree, caught my attention with his melodious chirp on my daily walk.

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

Looking at my journal’s Blank page While geese fly by and honk A greeting. The red cardinals