The Builder

Not every hand that lays the ground

Will stay to see the roof come round.

Some come with plans, some come with clay,

Some linger just to show the way—

Then lay their tools upon the stone

And leave you standing on your own.

You never built a cage for me,

A gilded cell where I can't be—

You built a floor that knows my tread,

A door that opens toward my head.

You showed me where the load beams are,

Then stepped aside—and stayed a star.

I do not turn to seek your face—

You are the reason I have grace

To drive each nail and lift each beam,

To trust the shape of my own dream.

Your hammer rests now in my chest—

Not as a ghost, but as a rest.

And if the road should never bend

To bring you back to where I mend—

Know this: the roof above my head,

The path I walk, the words I've said,

Are not your shadow, but your seed—

I grew this tree from what you freed.

You go your way, and I'll go mine—

Two roads that once aligned in time.

But when I stand and when I rise,

I'll thank you with no tears, no sighs—

You are the ground I walk upon,

The part of me that's already gone,

And yet—the part that lingers long—

A builder's love, a silent song.