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

On a walk this morning, the rocky cliffs that reach the blue-green sea, talk of strength today.

Rolling painted deserts of the west. Shrub bushes dot sloping hillsides. Relentless sun heats up

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

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

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

Life is not fair at times... But of course things Change quickly down the line, We are born into a No guarantee world.

The hummingbirds are buzzing As well as the bees. The Orioles land gingerly On top of the feeder. Cautiously they move down

One lit candle burns brightly As I make a wish upon it’s Golden aura, that Humankind May learn to caress the earth As the wind does a field of flower…

Mr. R. would talk about his deceased brother, he dreamed about him frequently; also of an eagle

My spirit communes with the four directions: To the north are in-laws, our aging mother, her last

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

Grateful for: Sunrise of pink and gold Showing the way, Lighting the sky, To another blessed day.

An owl hoots on this cool, crisp Spring night. A sound that’s distant yet echos

Walking on the beach of long ago, the constant roll of the gulf, it’s sound, like a lullaby.