The skin of a tree must contain many stories, as does our own skin.

What did the weather do to this bark?  What were the effects of rain, wind, dust?  And what did animals do?  Gnaw, tear, puncture, scratch?

The layers of this covering are more apparent, more available, than the layers of our skin.  I can see the surface of my arms becoming crepe-like , the veins becoming more prominent, the hair density diminishing, the elasticity failing.  (Sigh!) There’s also a softness, an aging softness like a return to new-baby-skin softness.  The bark, on the other hand, seems to have become more textured, rather than less, over time.

Time paints us like reluctant models trying to escape the pose.