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And then, 
As he did everyday,
He woke up from a deep sleep. 
He greeted the day with the same care
That he had laid himself down to sleep,
When he bid the day goodbye the night before. 
The days were like gifts that couldn’t be returned;
The nights brought peace that he hadn’t fully earned.
As the day proceeded on its own deliberate way,
He followed his prescribed routine without much to say,
With the same care that he did everything,
Gentle, methodical, and true to its given nature.
No doubt, he was weak, prone to strictness, vain,
Like any other man burdened with his own name;
But it offered no great hindrance or undue pain
Beyond what any person feels in dealing with his shame.

As the years passed by, these foibles lessened,
Until he shed his petty little faults 
With the same deliberation that he learned his lessons.
The care with which he did his work on any day
Was no less than the care he exerted every day.
Only as he aged, it was care of a different kind,
As the days became a new week, a new month, a new year.
His care was the care of his hands, his eyes, his attitude,
Even his beard and clothing felt the mercy of his care.
It was the care of a virtuoso whose fire still burned bright;
Every note of his violin sounded honest and without slight.
His mind and heart were focused on his duties at hand;
His soul was full, ready for the world’s trials to withstand.
When the day came to an end, as all days must,
He laid himself down to sleep with the same trust
That became a careful presence he garnished over the years.
Nobody noticed his care on this or any other day,
Nor did he notice anything amiss as he fell asleep one night;
But somebody did notice and together they slipped away.

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