He lifts himself from bed without remark
to meet the worn, repeated tasks at hand.
No record marks the ground on which he strains—
no witness, no laurel, no acclaim.
His strength lies not in storied deed but labor plain:
a hearth kept warm, a family fed, life sustained.
No tale is told, no stone inscribed or raised—
the ordinary man, in toil, is born.
The meaning lies in being, not in praise;
in beauty glimpsed, not possessed though understood.
No crowns he needs nor feast days held for him;
his worth is in the craft, the nail, the wood.
He does not seek to master, nor to flee,
but walks the field, or mends a gate, or tends a tree.
In passing light, in gesture undesigned,
a truth is touched, not grasped, yet binds.
The purpose is in others—in shared bread,
the coat repaired, the cup placed in the hand;
in love soft-spoken, faithful in its giving,
not in the vow proclaimed, but in the deed.
His days are stitched with care that shows no seam,
his name unsung, his work by others’ need.
Though he may pass unnamed when he is gone,
he will have sown the path that others walk upon.
Northcoast Antiquarian 