Strange to think of skin as an organ.
This thin, stretched flesh holding all together,
shielding from the sticks and stones of misfortune.
Aging, it frays, brittles.
It struggles, even after other organs begin to quit.
It holds on to provide its last protectorate,
the soul,
time to ready for the soon, long journey.
The soul waits inside, patient, humming old spirituals,
“…going home, going home, Lord I’m going home…”,
until, at last, skin, now paper thin, bones, gone to powder,
blow away as dust.
Soul ascends,
smiling.