World Strider Poem by Roy Ballard

Where there were only bare and empty fields
he scatters stardust, drenching it with light.
He harrows every plot until it yields
a new creation worthy of his might.
His word starts furnaces of fearsome blast
and metal born to bear his hammer stroke.
Niagaras of flashing stars are cast
and swirl in maelstroms where he trails his cloak.
He walks in empty worlds, by barren seas,
globes clothed in fertile greens or airy blues;
in fragrant forests diligent with bees
where orchids dress up in outrageous hues.
Sometimes he talks with things that grow and thrive
upon these ashes, glad to be alive.