This Great America Poem 1

This Great America Poem 1

Life on this mountain, so happy and pure.
Hard-working hands, callused, old and sore;
Seen and done a lot, still much more to do.
Heavy tools to handle, no power saws;

Hack wood most days, sweaty muscles aching;
Proud of my work, no other man’s laughing.
Time to think and dream, loving what I’ve done;
Daylight is my friend, darkness for resting.

Simple living, no deadlines or demands;
Old fashioned ways, what’s everyone doing?
Slow the pace down, breathe deep now look around.
Humble man of few words, with so much to say;

Years to me unsure, I treasure each day.