The empty shell shimmers against the dry, rustling grass of August.

I crouch low to the earth.

I gather her brittle, translucent skin, gently.

This skin of days passed.

I admire the patterns of her scales,

the texture visible, tangible,

color now faded.

I hold her cast-away sheath in the palm of my hand.

I think how I am like her.

I am part snake.

I too have outgrown my skin.

I too have shed the old, many times–

for survival,

for cleansing,

for growth,

for truth.

The shedding is agony.

The shedding is ecstasy.

It is a death and a rebirth.

I hold her old skin–

this temporary art of moments lived,

this disintegrating map of who she was.

I watch it flutter into pieces and scatter in the wind, returning.