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

Sometimes wonder about a star, way afar. How life might be in outer space,

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

Squirrels with bushy orange tails leap about the deck. Crickets hum, confused that it’s not dark yet. The caw of a blue jay

Half a world away, I walk a narrow, stone path. In the rice fields, the Balinese people

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

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

Perhaps it is the mind separating things into this and that. Perhaps it is the mind with it’s preferences

You may not know what you’ll do next: Hit the open road With your thumb stuck out. Give up all you own

Yellow finches Line the bird feeder Against Spring’ s canopy Of green and purple tapestry. Back and forth they go

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

When you are not here An empty heart full of fear Arises and wonders If I will see you again. What will I do without

On this New Year’s Eve Direction lost Drifting like blowing snow To and fro. A freeze comes

To open and risk hurt... Or stay closed but Never really live. Pain can reveal... A connection to

Inhale, the arms float up, Exhale, the arms float down, Namaste, at the heart. Inhale, the body bends, Hands at top of mat,