My pondering wanders the coastline of
age, whittling away rough edges, carving
caves under cliffs and trenches into skin.
This dance of death wears thin the thriving skin –
all that thickening and rotting levels. Of
course, every season creates art, carvings.
Trauma gave me strength so now I’m carving
stone to leave indentations on the skin
of earth, reminding my progeny of
the skin beneath their mind's carvings of me.