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My Father’s Shoes

Years ago, when I was four,
(Though memory’s kind of dim),
I climbed inside my Daddy’s shoes
And tried to be like him.

With shoes as long as I was tall
‘Took all I could to slide
The one before the other then;
I stumbled, though, with pride.

The things he liked I learned to love,
His hobbies then were mine;
“Who wants to take a ride with Dad?”
I led the lengthy line.

A lover of the great outdoors,
He probed it’s depth and height;
He found upon the barest hill
Some cause for great delight.

A craftsman in a dozen fields,
His hand took well to tool;
Educated far beyond
The years he spent in school.

A man who thought beyond the “now”
With principles and laws;
Any man can see effects,
He sought to know the cause.

He labored hard, but not for self;
His time was often spent
Helping others build a dream
Or straighten what was bent.

His humor sparked a million fires
That warmed another’s chill;
And now I think about those shoes
I hoped someday to fill.

Near six-foot-four he filled the door,
I grew to six-foot-two;
Then I stopped, close but not
Enough to fill his shoes.

But that’s alright, I’ll reach a height
That few have ever had;
‘Cause my own shoes are set upon
The shoulders of my Dad.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.



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