Born in North Carolina, spending his early years in the Appalachian mountains. There weaned on bluegrass and gospel music, and listening to the tales and stories of the misty highlands. Now retired, he spends as much time as possible in the woodlands and on the sweet rivers of his adopted home of northwest Florida.
Comes the morning, thrush will call,
from brambled hedge, or garden wall.
Sing he must, and sing he will,
though even to a silent hill.
Leave back, leave back,
the meadow land,
where flowers come to grow.
To look upon a darker place,
My heart has made a garden,
where the thorn falls away from the rose.
Where every flower has your face,
the only flower that grows.
True friends still come to the show when you no longer can dance.
A poem is a stone, skipped across a lake of song, at last to sink into the heart.
The meadowlark sings anyway. So shall I.
Be it throne or wooden stool, where sits man, there sits a fool.
We're all the same age. Just on different schedules.