Flint Hills, Eternal

Roses splashed in a cotton cloud,
Blushing rim-rock and prairie proud,
While thistle shake their purple plumb,
To grace these hills in Eden's shroud.

Darkly, in distant squalls that loom,
Whose fragrant breath is their perfume,
Whispers its misty song to me,
A quiet tune of days consume.

Tumbling blue-stem's grassy sea,
Ebbs and flows upon the lea,
A benediction in the wind,
Edging my eternity.

Past wire-barbed roads that seldom bend,
Gravel paved and never end,
Just stream beyond horizons' free,
Finding perhaps, immortality.