So, I Do My Best To Pretend Poem by Mark Heathcote

I ache in places where my tired bones no longer listen.
I ache like a creaking door.
Expecting the hinges to break or fall off
As surely as they one day must
I wonder what new natural oils will work best.
But distorted, swollen joints will not mend.
So, I do my best to pretend.
The pain is a welcome breeze, a blessing.
And that the lines on my face are a welcome guest
Are a lover's shadows giving off a passing shade?
But then the cherry blossom falls like a linen cloth.
And like them, another year later, I have nothing left.
But the fruit of a stone.
The stone of a fruit that's been drilling its way back home.