This man has no name,
Like wheat fields.
He would break himself in two for you,
Bread for a stranger.
If all you saw
Was the wind through wheat fields
You would know him.
If all you saw was the back of his head,
You would see the wind
Through winter wheat
On a dark night
Moving like an invisible hand through his hair.
Where were you
Before you had a heart,
Before you could say Ma.
January,
I know more about this man
Than I have a right to.
The lower lip that falls away
As if it had nothing much to say says it:
It takes knowing nothing, absolutely nothing
As in the beginning… darkness…. Over the surface of the deep….
To make a thing,
To hear the tick of life
Under six feet of snow
Where nothing can grow
Except Possibility.
Looking at the back of the head of the sculpture, I knew:
1. that this man has a profound humility and
2. genius takes humility at its core.
For an interesting article about Wilson Greatbatch, visit
The Making of the Pacemaker, by Consul B. John Zavrel
Copyright 2004 West-Art, Prometheus 92/2004