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

Ambition seems overrated at this time of life, effort seems more like strife. In my youth I was motivated by a hungry desire

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

Lately, a sadness pervades, I mourn for youth, perhaps passion of younger days. With age, some of that passion

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

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

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

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

Every hour we are someone Different, Every day something new Learned, Death is just another

Walking down the dirt path, Sounds drift on the air, Birds chirping, leaves Rustling, dogs barking. Interconnection of life

Sometimes wonder about a star, way afar. How life might be in outer space,

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

Embrace that which comes with ease: The twinkling of an eye, The drumbeat of a heart, The blooming of a flower,

The buck in the garden Chewing up hard earned Labor, His antlers raise, His ears perk up, as

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