MY FATHER WAS A SAWMILL MAN

My fatherís skin was rough as leather,
From dawn to dusk he toiled each day;
In sun and rain and freezing weather
He labored long for little pay.

He trod the trail of a sawmill man,
In overalls and dusty shoes;
No fancy duds were in his plan,
No silken ties or navy blues.

He raised nine kids with no regret,
But faced each day with grit and pride;
He kept the faith when trials beset,
And prayed that God would help provide.

Took all he had to get us grown,
Complaining not about the grind;
No other man that I've since known
Has been as loving or as kind.

My father's days of work are o'er;
At last he's found a place of rest.
Where toil and strife will be no more,
In pure white garments he is dressed.

~Copyright © 1996 Ruth Gillis~

"My Father Was A Sawmill Man" received a First Place Award
in the
September 1996 issue of Chicken Soup,
and a First Place Award in the May/June 1997 issue
of Poets at Work.

 

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