You dressed in common clothes, and walked
beneath the galaxies You made.
You bore the whispered insults and
you wore a borrowed father’s name.
There was dirt beneath your nails,
and there were blisters on your palms,
and when storms caught you on the road,
you did not speak a Maker’s calm.

For thirty years you wept at tombs
and did not stop the mourners’ cries.
Day after common day, you watched
the rolling rhythm of the skies
within a sunburned little town,
your shoulders bowed beneath the curse—
just smoothing wood and driving nails
and holding up the universe.


claudiaClaudia Lehman lives in Lebanon, Pennsylvania, with lots of books, tea, and her favorite man ever. She loves exploring the world of words and teaching children, and she feels most at home in the woods.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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