Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper. As if that answered anything. Agh, petals maybe. I said petals from an appletree.
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground. It is a willow when summer is over, a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson. The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls as if it would never end. Still the snow keeps its hold on the ground.