Skin
Skin is motes of dust.
Once knew life. Falls, like snow.
Skin turned to dry rind.
Stiff scales, no give. Cracked hard hide.
Skin met the sun’s stroke
And glowed red then oozed and peeled.
Skin was warm and soft,
A shield of flesh wrapped round form.
Skin was blushed with blood
At the hot whip of a glance.
Skin was formed deep in
Layers, to shift, float, find the light.
Skin is the thin film
Stream, not to be stepped in twice.
Heather Taylor