Today we pause, beneath late-summer skies,
to honor the hands, the hearts, the steady eyes.
The builders, the dreamers, the keepers of flame,
the nameless, the countless, who shoulder the same.
They rise with the dawn, when the streets are still,
to hammer, to heal, to craft, to till.
Invisible often, yet always in view,
the world keeps turning because of what they do.
Every bridge that arcs, every field that grows,
every lesson taught, every engine that goes—
behind it, a story, a spirit, a song,
of people who’ve labored, who carried along.
This day is for them, the ones who prove true,
that progress is built in the work that we do.
Not only for wages, not only for bread,
but for love, for the future, for children well-fed.
So raise up a glass, let the music play,
for the makers, the menders, the bright everyday.
On this Labor Day, may we all understand:
the world is held steady by calloused hands.
