Last Leaf on the Tree

An old country song,
By an old country artist.
Watching the seasons drift by,
Watching so many leaves fall.
Yellow, red, green, and brown;
Some ahead of nature’s time.

Staring out to the old cottonwood,
Shade leaves gone and bright sun in.
Nature’s cycle does its routine,
Guiding the changes of life.
No special leaf stands out,
But together such collective beauty.
Autumn ushers out so many,
Just as color changes explode.

Last leaf on the tree,
Alone but connected.
A lifetime of memories,
So much to have seen.
Spirits in the night,
Many Sun and Moons.

Hawks, Robins, and blue jays.
Coyotes, bobcats, and wolves.
Nature’s messengers of peace and hunt,
The cycles are on land and in the air.
Wind storms bring howling echoes,
Snow, rain, and sleet, their touch lingering on bark.
Spring’s bloom seems a distant memory,
Filled so many with hope and dreams.

Deer antlers lie on the ground beneath,
Making room for next year’s growth.
Water, energy, and nutrients,
A constant need for summer’s growth.
On Navajo and Pueblo historical lands,
Now a memory of the four directions,
Guiding balance and unity.

Last leaf on the tree,
Who will that be?
Still a bunch left,
Which leaf will be me?
Grateful another day,
To see the world’s bounty,
Grateful for this shared journey,
As branches hold fast, connected and free.

Toward the Light

In the silence of the vast desert,
A sea of shifting sands, whispering with endless hopes.
A man steps forward,
Leaving behind the shadows of the familiar.
Drawn to a flaming glow,
A beacon that stirs both heart and mind.
Into the deep, starless night,
Courage, fear, hopes, and doubts—
But an unwavering faith,
To hold onto without a trail.

“Wait here,” he whispers to the others,
This journey calls him to the source of being.
He trusts their safety, secure
In the arms of the divine.
The path of his steps unknown,
A question, a prayer, a promise.

The wind carries a voice, cool and subtle,
Not in words, but woven into flame.
A burning light that flickers bright,
Yet leaves all it surrounds whole.
A dance of warmth and revelation
On the sacred mount of God.

What do we seek from the light,
Drawn by the message unknown?
Is it warmth for the journey of being,
Perhaps wisdom to guide out of the fog
Of life’s ongoing wandering?
The flame holds light, wisdom, and more.

And here we are, timeless centuries away,
A similar belief in faith,
With hearts bound by the certainty
That in the vast unknown,
The light calls us not to witness,
But to awaken—
To find life’s purpose,
In this moment and going forward.

The burning bush stands still,
A paradox of thinking and being.
A voice of clarity in the silence,
That is felt, not heard.
Greed’s shadow, anger’s heat, ignorance’s veil,
Soothed by the balm of generousity’s light,
Kindness unfurling in wisdom’s glow.
In that moment, the seeker knows,
To approach is to be transformed.

So we walk,
Toward the flame,
Feet firm on sacred soil,
Eyes eager, hearts alight,
Seeking the fire that reveals
What is and what has always been.

And in the glow,
We find ourselves like fire in still water.
Not as arrogant men of conquest,
But as souls ablaze,
Aware, humbled, and home.
On a quest for understanding,
And deeper wisdom.

Threads of Gratitude

Gratitude flows like a quiet stream,
nourishing all it touches,
gathering moments of joy,
and weaving them into a tapestry of thanks.

I am grateful for the sun that rises,
painting each new day with promise.
For the mountains standing steadfast,
whispering strength with the wind.
For forests and plains that breathe life,
as I walk in their nourishment and renewal.
For oceans that provide life for the earth,
their waves a rhythm of surrender and trust.
For the Great Spirit that gave life,
with the opportunity to commune together.

Gratitude shines in the love of my family—
a bond that anchors, uplifts,
and carries me through every season.
For my wife, whose steady presence
is a lighthouse in all tides.
For my children, now grown,
carrying their own light
to illuminate paths unknown.

Gratitude sings in the voices of friends,
in laughter shared beneath the stars,
in quiet conversations that linger,
in the stories that connect us
across time and distance.

I am grateful for the lessons of the earth—
the birds that teach me to sing,
even when unseen.
The trees that stand strong through storms,
grounded and unwavering.
The gentle rain that softens the soil,
providing nourishment for all.

Gratitude is in the daily small wonders—
the scent of pine after a rain,
the shimmer of light on water,
the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
It is in the vastness of the sky
and the beauty of a single flower.
The moments of love and connection,
so easy to take for granted—
a meal, a hike, or quiet presence,
conversations of daily life.

I honor the wisdom of ancestors,
the roots that run deep and strong.
Their courage and love echo through me,
a thread in the fabric of my being.
I honor the wisdom of the land,
of those who came before,
who understood its sacred rhythms
and lived in harmony with its gifts.

Gratitude is more than words—
it is the song of the soul,
the quiet prayer of the heart,
the unspoken promise to live fully,
to give and love freely.
To cherish this fleeting, wondrous life,
holding precious the tapestry of connections.

It is in every step I take,
in every breath I feel.
A thread woven through the days,
keeping me close to truth and hope.
Gratitude flows like a quiet stream,
always moving, always giving,
always strengthening one another.

Many Little Birds

So many little birds—
Hiding in the trees like thoughts waiting to be known.
Why have they visited today?
Why have I noticed them in this way?

They dance together as one,
moving like my breath, like the breeze,
trusting in the air, trusting in each other,
never appearing to ask where to go.

Do they move by instinct, or is it intuition?
Is there a primal connection between them, and perhaps me?
Do they wonder if the wind will fail them,
or are they focused only on this moment, this survival?

Sheltered in the trees,
no fear of shadows that stretch and shift.
They greet me with chirps in the pines and Chamisas,
a harmony sewn into the foothills of the Sandias.

Their voices fill the spaces where silence once rested.
They do not ask where the wind will take them.
It is enough to feel its embrace,
to exist in the shelter of the branches.

Do they ever doubt their wings,
as I can doubt my own steps?
Their presence wraps around me—
A blanket of connection,
warm like the cup of coffee in my hands.

I feel their song, a quiet joy,
and in their community,
I feel present with my family.

But in the stillness,
I know the weight of this time—
the isolation pressing in,
the questions I can’t escape.

The questions circle like the wind—
where do I go from here?
The birds find shelter easily,
but where is mine?

Family, friends, and ancestral memories,
just birds in a flock with connections.
Work connections come and go, fleeting as the breeze,
while family remains.

Am I flying amongst them or watching from below?
Isolation came as a weighted surprise,
But hiding in the bushes is not the answer.

Do I think too much?
Perhaps they are here to help me just be.
To feel the wind through pine needles,
the scent of earth after rain,
the warmth of presence without needing answers.

There’s freedom in their flight,
A fragile kind of joy.
I ask myself:
What lies beyond the next gust of wind?
What branch will they land on when the sun fades?
And where do I fit into their vast migration?

Like ripples on still water,
they tremble through the air,
expanding outward, touching everything,
yet leaving no trace.

The ripple and retreat of wings,
their shadows on branches and leaves,
the fleeting connection to something larger,
yet invisible.

Will they return to the trees they’ve left behind,
or is home wherever they choose to land?
In their fluttering, I see myself—
carried by currents I cannot control,
but trusting, always trusting,
that I will find my way.

The feel of the wind against my skin,
the pull toward something unknown,
the quiet certainty that I am not lost—
just moving, just being.

But what if I’m now meant to wander,
trusting the currents, unsure of home?

A family of nomads,
In a land of uncertainty.
Trusting one another,
On the Open Road.