Father

My father has the kind of eyes,
That smiles with both his lips.
Some dark hair mixed among the grey,
That turns up at the tips.

His hands are very calloused,
From the shovel and the hoe.
He works a little plot of land,
And makes a garden grow.

He always keeps our table spread,
In such a moderate way.
And by his faith of things unseen,
He teaches us to pray.

If sadness ever comes to us,
He smothers it by half.
And sets the world on dancing feet,
That brings out all our laugh.

I'm telling you right here and now,
With all the words I can.
My father's traits all measure up,
To make a good, good man.


E.P. 1908 - 1989