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

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

Summer is near it’s end, I regret not visiting my childhood home, near the gulf, where the sunset

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

Red bird perched on a tree limb laced with snow. So happy to see him and the joy he brings.

Pink hues from the west Filter through Snow covered boughs Leaving, The evening light

Sitting on the lake shore, Which made my heart soar, The water rippled at times, Swirled into beautiful lines, Clouds reflected in it’s mirror,

Just a small part of me wants strife to go away, to return to a kinder time. Am I just losing courage? Life is draining me,

Yellow finches Line the bird feeder Against Spring’ s canopy Of green and purple tapestry. Back and forth they go

Red sun in the morning rolling up the side of earth. The sky turned pink, as a ball of fire showed it’s strength,

I lay still While my loved one, Sleeps. His warm hand In my hand,

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

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

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

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