home.

I sprang from the loins of the rolling oaken hills
and suckled from the bosom of the mighty Mississippi
I clothe myself in silky mist that rises from the gulleys
and garb my feet in silt and soil and fallen maple leaves.

My mind is as fertile as her ever black and sacred fields
my soul reflects her seasons; fire-autumn,  drenching-spring.
When I laugh the whitetail bounds, the dusky monarch of the Woods
and my lullaby is crickets, peeping singers and coyote.

I am Adam and my ribless body is one with the limestone Eden
The apple-blossom air swirls thick with skyward prayer
Old Time is called Father by many and I think that if such is true
Then Missouri is my Mother and always will have my love.