I don't sing the praises
of plodding. I mumble them.
Praise for slow striders
and taciturn toilers.
For persons who lay gray
mortar for red bricks.
Who plow fields for
food-to-be, who teach
students who arrive
foggy from hunger or
adolescent hormones.
Who nurse the ill, who
must listen and endure in
their jobs to the squawk, squeak,
shriek of opinions. I
celebrate ones who watch
where they're going, who
produce the correct tool
at the proper time. Who follow
facts like meandering creeks
until a decisive lake comes
into view. Humanity seems
always in need of the prepared
and careful, the appropriately shod,
citizens scrubbed of narcissism.
Thank you, plodders. Steady on.
hans ostrom 2022
