SUPINE WOMAN WITH TROWEL

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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