Driving through the small towns of America, children of all colors playing in the streets, some with tattered clothes

There is my shadow, A dark outline of this body And yet, it also holds,

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

Pale blue moon Of August, Peeking behind The clouds, Luminous,

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

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

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

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

The many places I have been And countless faces I have seen, The many tales to be told, Into the universe, they unfold. It’s all a passing show,

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

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

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

I remember your smile, your laugh,… you gave so freely. It’s hard that you are gone. I sigh and walk along the bay.

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