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

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

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

Walking on the edge, Between awareness and sleep. Sometimes... I’m in the moment, I feel my body,

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

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

Hello Sunrise, with your red ball of fire, peeking over the horizon, leaving the clouds pink,

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

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…

The birds flock to the bird feeder, some with black, capped heads and others with

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

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

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

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

What inspires me... Hummingbirds buzzing as they land, on nearby flowers. Their amazing wings