It’s the marrow that bears the gravity of age
Weighs down bones against the dirt
As though they long to slip their cage
Of flesh and fall free to the center of the earth.
The heart, like a drum major, keeps its beat
Marching blood and sinew in a charade of youth
A vain hope that the simple fanning of body heat
Will belie the truth
Of all past years. The brain clacks on
Unaware that its computer
Has lost the edge of calculation
And plans may have no future.
Later I plant tomatoes in fragrant loam
And know that for ashes, this is home