Sunday Stanza: Footsteps in the Snow

The snow fell thick in Castle Dale,
A hush across the land—
And in that frozen morning light,
I watched my father stand.
He crossed the field, a silent form,
With purpose in each tread,
And left behind a trail of prints
Where lesser feet might dread.

I bundled up and followed him,
My legs too short, too slow.
But found my way by planting steps
In footprints in the snow.
Each hollowed-out impression there
Was more than just a mark—
It carved a path of steadiness
Through cold and bitter dark.

My father’s strength was not just bulk,
Though strong he surely was—
He’d swing a hammer, split a post,
Or lift with no applause.
One nail, one swing, a room in awe—
I watched with wide-eyed grace,
And thought the gods of thunder must
Have borrowed from his pace.

Yet more than strength, it was his care
That built the man I knew.
He’d help a neighbor without ask,
And never claim the due.
A bed for one who had no rest—
No sermon, no acclaim—
Just quiet acts of kindness done
Without the need for fame.

Each child had their yearly camping time—
A fire, a tent, a fishing pole. a stream.
We’d eat our Pringles by the coals,
And talk and laugh and dream.
He’d take us where we chose to go,
No matter what he faced—
And somehow made us each believe
That we could not be replaced.

The world is swift, and fathers drift,
But mine was like the sun—
A constant blaze of quiet good
Who showed up, and got things done.
No medals line his weathered walls,
No speeches praise his name—
But every inch of who I am
Is stamped with his acclaim.

A statue on his dresser reads
What time has made more true:
A father is a simple word—
A daddy sees you through.
And now, as I make prints of mine,
In soil, snow, or sand,
I find I still am following
The footprints of that man.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

DocBott