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

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

It is what it is Despite my wishes for it, Otherwise. You are who you are Despite my expectations,

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

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

As we shared stories, The warm hum of voices heard, A cup of love spilled.

Rolling painted deserts of the west. Shrub bushes dot sloping hillsides. Relentless sun heats up

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

Photos are all I have At times, Of smiling familiar faces, My family spread out. I would travel often

What if, The simple things In life, were the Most important Events.

Brown hawk with spotted tail, soaring on the wind, balancing like a sail. Your piercing cry

Embrace that which comes with ease: The twinkling of an eye, The drumbeat of a heart, The blooming of a flower,

Beneath the bustling, hustling mind, deep inside, there is an oasis of calm.

The misty, night rain, Soaking bare trees, Bringing nourishment. I stand at the window, A steady beat echoes

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