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

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

Summertime gives A chance to grow Under the sun, Travel, to new places And have some fun.

This is the America I know: A sea of white, black, red, yellow And brown faces, Strong minds and voices Raised to the sun,

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

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

The gift of summer Is the sound of a Creek flowing through Rocks. A blue bird perched

Looking at my journal’s Blank page While geese fly by and honk A greeting. The red cardinals

First snow of the season Came down light and gay, With it’s bright white, Reflecting, Off slow moving clouds

Great scientific minds Working for cures Of terminal diseases, The clock ticks... What is the cure

On a walk this morning, the rocky cliffs that reach the blue-green sea, talk of strength today.

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

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

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

Birds flying here and there, landing on branches to chirp and bare, their heart. A private club among the trees with their own private code.