Skinbreather
The first real poem I ever write, will be in skin.
When I forget how to breathe, My body will remember— My skin, thin enough To touch the world And exchange Life for life
Not every day can be a healing. Sometimes, we can only let Small kindnesses in, One after another, Trusting there's Enough.
I have lived a long time armored— In the irony of being an artist, In the pelt of this wolf. I can be more, being The porous one, Letting it in.
Skinbreathers cannot live In arid worlds, absent The wetness of life. So I let the day Touch me in Music.
I let life pass my guardian In word and deed while Trusting in kindness And support when I am most tired. Coming ever.
So today, I won't climb hills. I won't explain or inhale. I'll just let the good Find it's way into Me—the sound And the still.
A world breathing for me While I live in memory, Digesting the past To feed the art, And wisdom, And Love.
Touch me And I'll Live.
