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

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

Geese are honking As they fly Across an orange colored Sky. My spirit soars

Pink hues from the west Filter through Snow covered boughs Leaving, The evening light

The red cardinal high in a tree, caught my attention with his melodious chirp on my daily walk.

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

Twilight slides in quietly as birds fly to warm nests. Pink hues of evening reflect in the clouds. Soon the moon

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

It’s that time of year again. The sound of honking geese fills the air, as they pass in alignment, to the Deep South.

Standing at a crossroad Between this life And the next, Heart in hand I knock on that

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

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

Red, yellow and orange leaves Fall quickly now And create a tapestry of color That fill my mind With joy.

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