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

The wind went through me, it carried the yellow, orange and red leaves lightly on the air. Another change is coming,

There is my shadow, A dark outline of this body And yet, it also holds, The hidden imperfections Of my existence.

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

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

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

Walking down the dirt path, Sounds drift on the air, Birds chirping, leaves Rustling, dogs barking. Interconnection of life

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

Tonight, the wind whistles as it rushes through the atmospher… Winter’s bare limbs of swaying trees, dance in the shadows.

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

When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.

Memories of my childhood Visit more and more Each day, As ghosts of past relatives Cast their shadows,

Misty fog floating through bare trees. Cold waves of wind coarse through the woods whistling as 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

Not sure where we are headed, Could be a long ride, Keep your heart steady, Open wide your eyes. There is something to learn