The Weaver's Walk

He romps the road to people's glance,
A man of thread and circumstance.
His coat is patched, his sleeves worn thin,
Yet proud he stands in weathered skin.

Each tear, each rip, a tale to tell,
Of work well done, of lessons held.
He does not beg, nor does he bow,
For stitched-up seams still serve him now.

The town folk nod but do not speak,
Astride their cloth so smooth and sleek.
Yet in his threadbare coat they see,
A man as whole as one can be.

For hands that mend and hands that toil
Are rich in ways that silk will spoil.
No fray, no tear can bend him low,
He stands behind what he bestows.

And though the wind may press and pry,
His buttons firm, his chin held high.
A man is not what wealth provides—
He walks in that which he abides.