9-11-19
Mr. R. would talk about his deceased brother, he dreamed about him frequently; also of an eagle
In the dead Of Winter, I long for Spring. In the rains Of Spring,
The misty, night rain, Soaking bare trees, Bringing nourishment. I stand at the window, A steady beat echoes
What is truth? It’s a changing sky, One day clear, The next, cloudy, Holding the blue and grey,
Misty fog floating through bare trees. Cold waves of wind coarse through the woods whistling as they go
Yellow finches Line the bird feeder Against Spring’ s canopy Of green and purple tapestry. Back and forth they go
Some days you’re in bliss, Some days you’re in pain. Some days you’re up in the clouds, Some days you’re down in the flame… Some days you get what you want
Inhale, the arms float up, Exhale, the arms float down, Namaste, at the heart. Inhale, the body bends, Hands at top of mat,
When I sit And watch The in and out Of breath, Thoughts no longer
Easing down the gravel road, yellow leaves spiral across, like a welcome
The chimes outside the pottery studio ring like a temple bell, calling the faithful to honor,
When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.
Tonight, the wind whistles as it rushes through the atmospher… Winter’s bare limbs of swaying trees, dance in the shadows.
The lines in my hand, Were read once, By a gypsy, who Predicated a long life... But with many interruptions.
Every hour we are someone Different, Every day something new Learned, Death is just another