With calloused hands and steady gaze,
The artist meets the morning haze.
Each dawn arrives, serene and still,
A canvas waits beneath his will.
A single stroke, then pause, then two—
He listens for what's good and true.
The paint may speak, the wood may sigh,
And clay holds dreams not seen by eye.
He does not rush the shaping flame,
For beauty’s not a thing to tame.
And patience walks beside his hand,
A quiet force that helps him stand.
He feels the soul in stone and grain,
In weathered knots and lines of strain.
Within the flaws, he finds the thread,
Of stories time has left unsaid.
The floor is strewn with starts and drafts,
Each one a step along his craft.
He toils not for the world’s acclaim,
But for the fire that has no name.
He works for love, not fleeting praise,
To bring forth light from shadowed days.
To build from nothing something true,
And say, “This is my gift to you.”
Each pigment mixed, each chisel’s trace,
Speaks quiet hope and boundless grace.
A silent hymn, a guiding spark,
For souls who wander in the dark.
He does not seek the hurried cheer,
But plants his art and waits the year.
As seasons turn, so does his hand,
In rhythm only hearts understand.
For art is not a race to win,
But something slow, and deep within.
It calls for time, for care, for truth,
For weathered hands and dreams of youth.
So let him work, and let him be,
A steward of what few can see.
A patient soul, a sacred part,
The quiet labor of the heart.
