There is an almost-tinge
of green on this field –
grass recovers as blades
combine to cheat my eyes
& even those leaf-weight
of trees offer a retreat
from autumn’s surrenders
& hold tight for now – I
am playing my part under
curls of dumbbells & my
fasts – aged body is our
pension pot – I say – to
no one – except you – we
are ill-defined by every
part we retain – teeth –
hair – skin – a tinge of
health – we are so well?