Painted Wild Horses

In an old wool blanket wrapped up,
an a coffee cup in hand
she sits snuggled and cuddled
into the front porch swing
an feels a gentle north wind
that tosses her blonde hair
for before her, above the great oak tree,
are the constellations of stars
that are sleeping now, which earlier,
once shown bright
as the great spirit of the mountains
now awakens with the sunlight
to hear the majestic eagles soaring cry,
under this endless sky
while the mighty rivers flow into streams,
then into babbling brooks
for all trails lead home, in the open range,
of timeless landscapes
an the effervescent mysteries
which have drawn her to this place in time
as the world is unmolested an pure,
with beauty for miles around
holding on to create more
with someone else to share this with
an deep within her heart, in love,
will now blossom an flourish
just as in her life grows,
for she has become,
the yellow rose of Texas

So now, a city girl,
from an elegant sundress,
to plaid shirt and jeans
from shopping at rodeo drive,
to mucking stalls and lifting hay bales
she has become a worldly woman,
that no one can brake or tame
and is staying this course,
as she runs with the painted wild horses