poetry & things


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

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