Dad's Boots
Cowboy Poetry
I gently held my father’s hand
while sittin�near his bed,
strokin�soft the white hair,
now unruly on his head
His boots sat in the corner,
all rough an�weather-worn,
remindin�me of all the ways
he taught me without scorn
Just sittin�at our table
each night when day was thru�
bowin�tired an�weary head
to give our Lord His due
His risin�every mornin�
b’fore hearin�rooster’s crow,
gettin�chores done early,
‘cause he had some fields to sow
Workin�hard for little,
but always taking pride
in what he could accomplish
for his family an�his bride
Never speakin�harshly
but teachin�just the same
as he showed us with his manner
how to win life’s crucial game
Not complainin� not unloadin�
the worries he might have
‘bout the weather or the plowin�
or nursin�sickly calves
He always took great notice
of doin�right or wrong,
an�told us always listen
to the voice of our heart song
He taught to be respectful,
an�would gently bring to mind
old folks in their agin�
for he knew someday we’d find¯
We too would walk our elder’s path,
an�as the prophets say,
“Ya reap what you have sown�
now or later, you must pay.�
Those boots brought back old memories,
sittin�there so still,
as if the man who walked in them
had finally lost his will
But if I know my dad at all,
his spirit will live on
in the lives of all his children
with each an�every dawn
We’ll start our day like he did
with purpose in each step,
be honest in our dealin’s,
not excusin�any debt
He leaves us with the knowledge
we can all do somethin�great
if we live our life for others
till we reach that pearly gate
His boots are lined an�wrinkled
just like his weathered face,
but he goes today with dignity,
no dishonor, no disgrace�
Dad's Boots Cowboy Poetry
Poetry by Tamara Hillman - Copyright 2006
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