DERMIS (A FIOR DI PELLE)

Like the needles of a Douglas Fir on the festive doors,

we shed.

Like stink bugs in the Fall foliage, we mute.

Like the ivy, we renew. As the rose, we stand glorious in

the winter.

Like heather, the skin is grace of spirit in the harshness.

Like music, it transforms time into the rhythm. It's a door

to the higher self, as it carries the wisdom of our

ancestors. It's a wish under the Full Moon, as we release

what no longer serves us. The contemplation of the

energies. The exploration of the cracks under the

guidance of ingenuity and curiosity. The toothless laugh

of the fullest hearts. It's our ability to see what we cannot

touch. And through the deeper layers, the dermis, where

scars form and don't shed, but they nurture the wisdom

of otherworldly beauty.

Paint to the eluvium.

Pentagram of the quietude.

Tissues at the rebirth.

Flame to the paper.

Poem: Dermis (a fior di pelle), by Ludovica Mazzucato

Music: I found, by Amber Run