The writer traveled along as well.
He always had a story to tell
of perceptions he had carefully compiled.
With a journal in hand, often he smiled.

Composing notes and observing all.
Taking in scenery, watching leaves fall.
With a furrowed brow and squinted eyes,
constantly wondering, questioning, “why?”

Intuitive and brave, he painted
illustrations with words he created.
His appearance was pleasant,
one would feel graced by his presence.

Optimism was his pure demeanor,
not one other viewed the world clearer.
He cherished life and all that it entailed.
With golden hair, his skin was far from paled.

His closeness to the floor of the earth,
Made him understand the importance of its worth.
And so he writes of the world’s wonders,
he writes of each person’s blunders.
For the mysteries that lie within his soul,
are written on the pages he never told.