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Dad's BootsCowboy PoetryI gently held my father’s handwhile 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…
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