Middle Age The light this morning is tinged with soft pink. The trees are lightly waked. There is no stretch to compete. It is like middle age where every day seems to bring news that someone close is not okay. The plans for future still persist. There is reach and there is satisfaction with each breath, each tooth brushed. Each tooth is considered and valued. It is no longer the whole mouth. The smile is found in caves. The New De Young The space inside a new museum is enclosed, chosen, pumped clean and carefully placed. The architect is acclaimed. The space outside is also formed. Concrete spreads and rocks artfully crack. Slate is purposefully, randomly stacked. It is the trees that draw me. They shape, color, and texture my insides, the trunk rising from dirt that is active and alive, so parts can die. Trees drop leaves, like cocoons. Branches paint the sky with wings camouflaged to mat nature in a frame. We all are seen as scene, moving parts, people, falling leaves. Eat now the heart.