Sitting with the Old Ones

Winter comes, harsh and searing
Nevertheless 
With a fierce beauty.

I see that ridge along their
Backs a mule, a dachshund.
No amount of roasted chicken for one
And expensive grain and additives for the other
Will camouflage the diminishing flesh
As their back spines rise with age but defiance.

"Look here! These spines carried wonder while
Rooting in the earth and riders to and fro
Pursuing their dreams. " 

I hear their defense.

Slowly my hand behind me fingers my
Back. Startled? Relieved 
My flesh
pulls back, too, as if to hoist forward
My aging, brilliant self.