Our skin is marked like the trunk of a tree.
Each wrinkle is a year, some less visible.
Those less visible are the years more forgotten.
The skin ages with sags, folding strangely,
but deems us more human and delicate.
Autumn falls down and winter ices over
each season bringing its song to fruition.
We will all die someday,
some of us will just have more
noteworthy tunes stuck in our heads.