Skin

Our skin is made of Sun and Wind and holds against us so much sin.

A psalm to our sensory powers,  
The skin not only feels but also  
Breathes life and echoes like music  
That only God could write.  
It sheds to reveal the spectacle of pain, 
It renews to reveal the miracle of transformation, 
It glows and speaks in both  
Softness and roughness.  
It conceals the unsightly and the complex  
Like a ballerina gracing the stage with endless elegance,
In spite of all the pain that comes with each plié. 
Think about stars traversing above dark clouds, 
Yet still shining through.  

Titian’s Venus of Urbino - an early example (1538) of skin as a medium for beauty.

The only surface that can photograph the wind is our skin.  
It captures its velocity, gives it shape and colour,  
Perhaps it even lends it a taste.  

Protector of our blood and soul,  
It sometimes falters and mirrors it instead,  
Releasing it into the world;  
And then the soul finds its way back 
And crashes into the goosebumps—  
archangels at the gates of Heaven,
Screening for the eternal return.   

Undress, lie down, close your eyes,  
And in the rhythm of your breath,
Trace the beauty line of this shell of life.