He is from fields, endless prairies
runs with buffalo on the Oklahoma plains
nature runs all through him, restless
as rivers, always a river, he is winding
weaving, fording the depths of soul, masterful
days exploring countless outer lands
his hands must be worn winter leather, warm
in Spring he gathers flowers for his lady’s home
sees her essence in sky blue clouds
wanders the salt creek way, home
or sometimes lost to the wild hills
he may lay all the day, watching shadows of the sun
wane and melt their way back into moon
he seeks, watching storms in gradient greys
windy skies sway, with darkest rain
he is soaking in, all he can hold
all of nature transforms his soul
his words are woven, spun gold
ever sublime, are his poems
to behold