Over the fields and prairie
creeks and tree lines
endless miles
of countryside,
...
I go across the prairie;
alone... to a place,
private...
not even I can enter.
...
I plow the paper with a pen
engaged as the family has been
in cultivation: sowing and reaping.
...
The heat had been forever:
constant oven-wind
shriveled leaves and trees.
...
They died with their boots on
so the legend goes,
and maybe some of them did.
...
Towers of the Spring,
rising billowy brown
climbing high in the sky...
...
The sky-floor miles below,
earth lower still,
furrowed white plains
stretch to the horizon.
...
Raised on a farm in Kansas, he writes about the natural world and his perception of the spiritual reality it echose. He has four children and three grandchildren. He has poems, history, stories and articles published in a dozen countries in four languages.)
In The Snow
A spot of red in the snow –
tiny, isolated,
easy to be missed.
An eternal event
(of minor proportions)
has occurred here.
One life was given to another
no tragedy in cosmic terms,
just patterns of life.
Tracks across the snow –
little ones end,
larger ones continue.