Nancy L. Wilson Poems

My little buckaroo, trying to rope an' ride like big people do.
Small fingers turning ropes into knots,
throwin' at dogs and mom's flower pots.
Daddy's old number pinned to your chest you're sure you're the best.
...

Behind the shack in the woods there used to be,
a tired, gnarled old tree, where you shared your love with me.
Beside the blanket on the grass.
Wild flowers used to grow,
...