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 grays 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, his poems to behold
Here is a tribute to WL Winter - I thank you for your wondrous contributions here. I am continually astounded by your work.