MY POETRY, MY HAIR


My poetry is my hair:

The little-girl tresses I lacked as a child,
never ruffled by father or plaited by mom.

The heavy mane of my coltish years -
not the freak-flag proclaiming
rampant teenage rebellion,
but the drape to conceal
my brokenness.

The load to be shed,
discarding the years
of wastage and
unwanted sickness.

My hair
My poetry
My flag

Now it billows around me
like the vibrant golds of autumn,
the fruit of an Indian Summer.

You can admire it sophisticated, neatly styled;
or free-flying wild and reckless.

But I like it best
if you would only
take a lock of it
and tenderly wear it
close to your heart.