Wood, Hay and Stubble

Into the mind of every man
Who has labored
Under the sun
Comes the notion
That all is not permanent
All is at risk.

The growing fear rises
That a man’s hands
Cannot form a single thing
That can testify
The laborer was here
Was significant
Had merit.

A man’s hands
Become leathery
Calloused and cracked
After a life of endeavor.
It seems fair trade
For an honorable life
Fair trade
For value.

But a swelling apprehension
Rises like bile
In the throat
That there can be no
Assurance
That anything may stand
The test of time
That all may be but wood
Hay
And stubble
When tried in the fire.

With time running out
A man's hands work harder
Work longer
Hoping the application
Of a little more
Of the same old stuff
Will make a difference
And assure his legacy.

But the sun sets
The hands ache
And the head turns restlessly
Upon the pillow
Hoping for one more day
To add just
A little bit more.

But the clock ticks
Relentlessly.
And so the story goes.