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