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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
Write To Tamara
Cowboy Artwork by Pat Baker
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