When I grow really old I may have to do yoga Full time, to get out The aches and creaks. When I grow really old

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

Some days you’re in bliss, Some days you’re in pain. Some days you’re up in the clouds, Some days you’re down in the flame… Some days you get what you want

In the noble purpose of my life, In the clear and quiet chamber Of my soul, In the open and warm cave Of my heart,

The chimes outside the pottery studio ring like a temple bell, calling the faithful to honor,

My heart is a good heart, It beats strongly And works hard, To keep me alive. My mind is a good mind,

The white snow lay gently on the ground in a swirl pattern. The sky, a slab of smooth grey stone.

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

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

Blue star behind tree branch. White cloud passing half moon. Black space surrounds like a

Easing down the gravel road, yellow leaves spiral across, like a welcome

Photos are all I have At times, Of smiling familiar faces, My family spread out. I would travel often

Leaves falling, Another season Decorating the earth. One red leaf In my path,

Today, I wish the pain to go, the fatigue that I fight so. This process of aging is unkind and yet, the law of nature is a fast lane of change.