From out of the west, a man went on a quest, planted trees, to give live at ease, apples of each eye, pass the dream and the passer bye, last words said, the entire world be fed, from the fruit. How is it you walk, why is it you talk, why on all fours you do not run, warm is the curl of life in the sun. Snow is the mind A voice in time Fine is the grow Wild as love we know Show is the sign Picked from the vine Line will know The places she goes Flow will be mine Soft the kiss of her wine Time sleeps ago Touch of I know Tow is nigh Love lingers in her eyes High is row Wall of love grows Bow is cry Arrows of heart fly Die will go As deer falls in snow Hoe will sigh Plowing a star less sky My will try To get by A time in a cabin old, a man sat counting his gold, found nothing there, for he was to old to share, value had it none, he could not walk in the sun, placed in the floor, worked for more, no plan, just to get more in the pan, cannot bend cannot stand, poor fool, storage of rocks, no one to mend his socks, dies old and alone, what is a drift, but a bank of snow.

 

Author's Notes

A friend and I sat to thunk, about a log and one old skunk, he wrote you see for the country, me I write in prestige, he worked the land and planted seeds, I walked the road with insults and greed, both of us smell a bit, but that skunk he had us both licked. Words they play what ever you want them to say. Walt Whitman has lived but now I pass your way... Walt