ATONAL

My hands are atonal
their smoothness gone with slow decrease
an old bark on senior trees resisting all weathers
and, as you see, are the worse for wear.

My skin jars my sight
like discordant music in a lambent symphony
unexpected yet not without art
as I come to terms with time's tidal wash.

Veins protrude
while wild silvering hair flashes
giving old hands, a primitive air
and a certain wild loose pride
like another curtain call.

Transparent cells let me see my flow
and sometimes the beat of my heart
that races still when beauty passes by
and tingles the skin
and the soul
with remembered anticipation.

But there's also pain
in the twist of age
and inner health
is not the young lad spendthrift
that it was.

Yet, a symphony remains
in its artful whole
and sparse atonal chords though rare
remind of just how precious is the work of creation
we call ourselves.

(Eye of The Wolf)