This Great America (poem)
My eyes tell the story, memories here;
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.