It is April, and the air is still cold
at night up in the Kamakura
mountains. As the dry soles of
my feet slowly soak up the warmth
of the bath, my skin flushed from its heat;
I am overwhelmed by a gentle sadness.
How vulnerable it is this surface of
mine, so porous and thin, with all its
little bruises and cuts. How it reddens
and roughens with the harsh autumn
winds. How numb and white it turns,
as the snow falls in winter.
One by one, I lift my legs out of the
now murky water, wrapping each in a
thick cloth of linen. I wonder – what
if this was my second skin, the surface
of my body forever cloaked by these
densely woven threads.
No wind can get to them now.
No rain, no snow.
I have nothing to fear.
No harm will come to it. ...