1-6-2019
As I enter my sixty-third year, Fall leaves grace the path I love, With hues of red, Gold and orange.
Harsh reality smacks like a slap of cold wind. Sometimes I’m a tough sailor, at the helm,
The white snow, thin Like sand, over The fields, blowing Across the road. My car rambles
This is the America I know: A sea of white, black, red, yellow And brown faces, Strong minds and voices Raised to the sun,
When I sit And watch The in and out Of breath, Thoughts no longer
Holiday cheer and laughter, Multicolored lights blink faster, Music of love and good will, Grace the air like snowflakes. Tis the season to be compassionate…
Unable to be all things For all people, Perhaps at one time, I tried. Those days are
On a walk this morning, the rocky cliffs that reach the blue-green sea, talk of strength today.
At that magical time When the yellow moon Sets, And the pink mist Of dawn,
If I had all the time In the world To write, What would I say? What would be the most
Photos are all I have At times, Of smiling familiar faces, My family spread out. I would travel often
Brown hawk with spotted tail, soaring on the wind, balancing like a sail. Your piercing cry
On a walk, many Brown-Eye Susan line the border, before the woods. Rain clouds move closer as if to give a hug, while
The red cardinal high in a tree, caught my attention with his melodious chirp on my daily walk.
Many thoughts in the mind, Some productive, some not. They glow like fires, Created by needs and