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,

Red cardinal dancing On white snow, How regal you appear With your cloak of red, How it cheers my heart

This evening the blank, white page is open. My nerves are on edge, while a storm forms on the horizon.

As we shared stories, The warm hum of voices heard, A cup of love spilled.

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

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

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

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

Many thoughts in the mind, Some productive, some not. They glow like fires, Created by needs and

On a walk, many Brown-Eye Susan line the border, before the woods. Rain clouds move closer as if to give a hug, while

The flesh withers as we age But our inner spirit Remains the same. And when the body dies The spirit breaks free

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

Unable to be all things For all people, Perhaps at one time, I tried. Those days are

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