My Father's Shoes

October 29, 2009
Custom User Avatar
More by this author
My father, poised behind his pulpit,
graying beard and thinning hair,
authority displayed across his brow.

Words flow passionately from his lips,
a victorious cavalry charging at hearts.

His mind, a golden chalice, overflowing—
a river flooding the congregation
as he imparts his accumulated wisdom.

My feet are inadequate to fill his shoes—
he crafted them with his own hands,
a precise fit for his, feet not mine.

I am not him, I am me, and to each individual
is a pair of shoes crafted by his own hands.

But he has made a way, that I may refer to him.
He lends me the proper tools
that one day, my chalice will overflow.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback