| New Skin
In the spring balls of seedlings would drop like hope in the russet clearing of my yard. I’d collect them dutifully. They were both hard and soft, like the sting of a hand against eight year old skin. Under the craggy tree I’d pile them like tiny cannons, gather spreading leaves and walk on their irregular surface. I can still feel the snugness of my PF Flyers. I way blood on the bark, mottled like a Jackson Pollack when my first tightened and struck. Each rain gave me fresh surface. Now I look at my unbroken hands, think of Georgia O’Keefe, the shrug and offering of pink petals. Every spring the rain comes pelting, invites me to open and grow new skin. Lisa C. Taylor |