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

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

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

In the still night In the silence, My soul begs, My mind to rest. It’s story told

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

Easing down the gravel road, yellow leaves spiral across, like a welcome

Life is not fair at times... But of course things Change quickly down the line, We are born into a No guarantee world.

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

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

The hummingbirds are buzzing As well as the bees. The Orioles land gingerly On top of the feeder. Cautiously they move down

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

Not sure what to write while the world is on the brink of another war. While others face

Silver sliver of the moon With the bright star of Venus Trailing behind. Moonbeams casting light On the waves,

Leaves falling, Another season Decorating the earth. One red leaf In my path,

White heron skidding the blue, grey water, of the bay. How free and easy you make it look,