Hands That Built the Horizon
Before I knew the weight of days,
or how the world could bend and strain,
your voice was there—steady and low—
like distant thunder promising rain.
You taught me not in grand displays,
but in the rhythm of your deeds—
how patience grows in quiet soil,
how strength is shaped by tending needs.
Your hands were worn from unseen wars,
from lifting more than I could see—
not just the burdens of the day,
but all you carried quietly for me.
A father’s love is rarely loud,
it does not always seek the stage,
it lives in presence, firm and sure,
a guiding line on every page.
Through every doubt I dared to face,
through every fall, each uncertain start,
you were the map I didn’t know
was folded gently in my heart.
And in the world beyond our home,
in every life that fathers raise,
there echoes something strong and kind
that shapes the future’s unseen ways.
So here’s to you, and those who stand
as roots beneath what we become—
for in your care, both fierce and calm,
the best of who we are is begun.
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