A Token of Labor

The sun beats down, heat clings to my skin,

as I sit on the porch, where my thoughts begin.

I glance at my palm, a callus worn tough,

a map of my choices, the evidence of rough.

Each task left unfinished, a weight on my soul,

reminders of labor, the toll of my role.

This hardened reminder, a testament clear,

that comfort can linger while I toil in fear.

In the quiet, I ponder the marks I have made,

each crack and each crease, a history laid.

As the sun sinks low, shadows start to dance,

I embrace my own struggle, a laboring chance.