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

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

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

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

What is truth? It’s a changing sky, One day clear, The next, cloudy, Holding the blue and grey,

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

Inspiration is in the falling of rain, the soft coo of birds in late afternoon, the sinking of the

Dark bulk of a single bird, With red puffed up chest, As winter’s breeze sways his perch…

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

Driving down the road, The song, “Let It Be” Came on the radio. Taking me back to Various scenarios.

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

Not a word heard As the river flows Over rock, around Banks that lie Waiting for visitors.

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

The white snow, thin Like sand, over The fields, blowing Across the road. My car rambles

The misty, night rain, Soaking bare trees, Bringing nourishment. I stand at the window, A steady beat echoes