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Gray-haired and flint-eyed, his sunburned face lined
Grandpa was a man of few words
But he had a way of not wanting to say
Any more than he thought would be heard
The long years of living and day-to-day giving
Had carved out a map on his face
With little to lose, he’d learned how to choose
And his choices were easy to trace
He had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly gone
From a long line of teachers and white Baptist preachers
He was born with an Indian will
His quiet dark eyes reading the light
As he rode in the low Osage hills
His school was the prairie, the Sage, the wild berry
The Quail, the wide-open sky,
The Cottonwood thicket by the slow rolling river
The Redbud and the hot cattle drive
He had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
precious and so quickly gone
There were days filled with thinking,
Nights with the drinking for a lost love that raged like a storm
But how his eyes smiled when he’d talk to a child
The rough hands so gentle and warm
His strong arms were brown
Where the long sleeves rolled down on his faded blue cotton shirt
When times got hard he’d go out in the yard
And cuss away some of his hurt
He had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly gone
Now the garden’s grown dusty, the hand-axe lies rusty
The door’s banging hard in the wind
Grandpa’s store is closed down, like most of the town
And it won’t be open again
And the big white car sits out in the yard
Of the house he built solid and true
But I see his eyes burning tonight
Like the stars in the sky he once knew
He had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly gone

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