Squeezing Pomegranates and Getting Old

This morning I picked some pomegranates from the two thriving trees that grow in our garden, and I squeezed juice.  This is my agricultural task every fall, and I enjoy it, though it's time consuming.  Every year it's a race with the insects that lay their eggs in the fruit and spread rot, with the birds that come and nibble the fruit that splits open, and with the other things that I have to do. 
We have a huge quantity of fruit to squeeze.  So far this year I've produced about ten liters of juice.  It's a bit sour and very concentrated, so we add a bit of sugar water to it to make it tastier.  We always freeze a good bit of it and use it on special occasions during the year.
I could have gone on picking and squeezing for another hour or more.  I tend to get into things when I do them, but I tore myself away from the task.  Time to get back into the world of words!
The words have to do with acknowledging that, as I approach the age of sixty-seven, I can't think of myself as "middle-aged" anymore.  I have to admit to myself that I'm an old man now, luckily a vigorous and healthy one, still able to climb up on ladders and pick fruit from high branches, still active, but old.
So I've got to squeeze the juice out of my remaining years the way I squeeze the juice out of the pomegranates.  That's the germ of a poem that I might or might not write.