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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