New Skin
In the spring
balls of seedlings would drop
like hope
in the russet clearing
of my yard.
Id collect them dutifully.
They were both hard and soft,
like the sting of a hand against
eight year old skin.

Under the craggy tree
Id 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 OKeefe,
the shrug and offering of pink petals.

Every spring the rain
comes pelting, invites
me to open and grow new skin.

Lisa C. Taylor