To write about age you need to take something and
(This is an art which has always loved young women.
And silent ones.)
A branch, perhaps, girlish with blossom. Snapped off.
Close to the sap.
Then cut through a promised summer. Continue. Cut
down to the root.
The spring afternoon will come to your door, angry
as any mother. Ignore her.
Now take syntax. Break that too. What is left for you
and you only:
A dead tree. The future. Which does not bear fruit. Or