The Drifter

He was a perpetual wanderer
In search of a place
That he could call home,
Yet every time
The winds of opportunity blew,
He pulled up stakes
And headed off
In the direction
That the wind was blowing.
There were plenty of women
Who had tried
To get him to settle down,
But he just didn’t seem to be
The settling type.
The fact is that he was
More comfortable
Sleeping out under the stars
Than he was
Cooped up in a room.
He liked being outdoors,
Working with his hands
And feeling the grit
In his teeth.
He worked as a ranch hand,
A handy man of sorts,
Doing odd jobs
That always needed to be done
Around a ranch.
He was good at fixing things,
Especially cars,
So no matter where he was,
He could always find work
Of one sort or another to do.
When he wasn’t working,
He almost always had
A piece of wood
In his hands
That he was carving
Or sanding and polishing.
He was good at whittling,
Making figures of people
As well as horses and cattle.
He was a master
Of intricate detail.
You should have seen
The eagle he did once.
That was a magnificent piece
Fit for a museum.
There must be pieces of his
Spread all over the country
Because he tended to leave something
Everywhere he went.
He also had a way with kids
Though he never had
Any of his own.
I suppose if he had been
More inclined to stay put,
That would have changed.
He was just one
Of the tumbleweeds
Drifting with the wind
Across the prairies.