The Prairie Son

He strides 'neath billows
of storm clouds 'a comin'
winds 'a stirrin'
grass blades burnin'
waist-high in summer heat.

He stops
takes in the scent
of Earth
of dirt
from which he came
'a twistin' out from below
one day.

Faint smile
plays on his lips
key to the door
'a janglin' at his hip

A wagon in the distance
comes 'a rollin' on
closer
like the others did
before they left the road

He feels his thoughts
'a risin'
swelling, growin'
surmising
what this one will hold

So beautiful....
white wagon canvas
sailing it's last
on prairie waves.

He will put them
in the room
behind the door
with all the rest--
lifeless eyes 'a starin'

He touches the key
caressing--
the Prairie Son's 'a comin'....