Joist

In the quiet hush of a timbered attic,
A joist lies low, a humble beam,
Its grain a map of patient years,
Whispering the weight of every dream.

It bears the floor that feet will tread,
Supports the rooms where laughter rings,
A silent spine beneath the plaster,
Holding up the everyday things.

When storms may shake the old house frame,
The joist stands firm, unyielding, true—
A modest hero, unseen, unsung,
In British oak, it sees us through.