The Open Field Poem by Geoffrey Donald Page

Now, on the other side of sixty,
You're like an open field.
Soon the disabilities

will start to sprinkle down,
those fancy Greek and Latin tags.
The same low isobars will bring

the illnesses as well,
that list of diminutions:
the bloodstream, once a freeway,

is now a cul de sac;
the heart taps out its hapless morse;
a great metropolis of nerves

is slowly frozen over
and cancers, sotto voce, make
their covenants of pain.

When clouds like these hang overhead
you know you're just an open field
waiting for the rain.