Back Season

 

What it is to feel one's age then 
is eight years 
into being wind swept rigid,
discs over-seasoned 
or misaligned by the code
and unsuspected movements,
the blemishes in youth,
you learn to see as glitches,
that in later life are brought on
outside of design, too much soap,
too little water.

My face won't truly dry,
my back's a fallen branch,
grooves bleach 
the morning after snow sound.
Eight years of this my complaints
weren't always so grim.
The chill beneath the door:
my eyes didn't always widen
amidst the gloom.
I flashed the haunted look,
at the last draught mid-sentence,
back season always comes for me,
sometimes I hold 
myself in pain for what 
might stretch beyond,
but eight years as an aggregate,
my age rolls back says this is
no age at all.