He made meaning
from the simple things around him;
from the raw stuff of his every days.
Never waiting for luck or fate,
Opportunity was not an event
for which he waited
but his way of seeing in the world.

From the mundane and grinding
he spun threads of truth and hope,
wove them into his friends and lovers:
The easy and the broken,
The ones who took and those who gave.
From his trials he laid foundations,
failures a binding agent
for every success,
And with his triumphs
tiled together brilliant mosaics,
Letting those who poured into him
see the way their grace
contributed to his joy.
From his enemies he made friends
and when that failed
he tattooed his weathered skin
with the hard truths of loss,
Making those a part of him, too.

At his end
He had nothing he hadn't made
And nothing he had made
was without meaning.