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

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

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

My heart is a good heart, It beats strongly And works hard, To keep me alive. My mind is a good mind,

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

Itchy eyes scaly feet achy joints and bad teeth hair so fine

In the bright moments My mind is a flame, Melting obstacles, Gaining gifts of wisdom. In the dark moments

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

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

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

Twilight slides in quietly as birds fly to warm nests. Pink hues of evening reflect in the clouds. Soon the moon

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

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

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

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