Dad's Boots

Dad's Boots

      

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’

‘fore hearin’ rooster’s crow,

gettin’ chores done early

‘cause he had some fields to sow.

Workin’ hard for little,

but always takin’ pride

in what he could accomplish

for his children an’ his bride.

Not complainin’—not unloadin’

the worries he might have

‘bout the weather, nor the plowin’,

or nursin’ sickly calves.

His boots bring back old memories,

sittin’ there so still,

as if the man who walked in them

had fin’lly 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.

Those boots are lined an’ wrinkled

just like his weathered face—

he meets God now with dignity,

and honor—no disgrace.

© 2006, Tamara Hillman

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.