Women

my Mother’s hair is rich, silver-streaked brunette,
the bark of a venerable oak reduced to silken strands,
sure and strong and smelling faintly of warm kitchen.

Grandma’s hair is slow, misty tendrils,
the silver of knitting needles, fine tea services,
quietly weaving whispers of wisdom.

darkening blonde, a touch of pewter,
a Teacher’s hair trillingly alive and joyous,
wisping and curling like lips in a wry smile.

soul-Sister with serious brown curls
and surprising sunny dashes, mirth-light,
styled practically, and soft enough to cry on.

Ex-lover, auburn deep and silent as falling leaves,
twined tenderly about my fingertip one moment,
flown far and free as mustang’s mane the next.

BeLoved, she of gypsy curls, seductive soft waves,
dark as night’s embrace, swirling with the dance,
yet still and shining beneath my touch.

the myriad colors of ripening wheat,
all found in My long hair:
nurturing strength, curly vitality,
appreciation for irony, quiet magic,
lessons learned, the power of love.

the fate of Daughters
is to see in their own hair
reflections of every Woman in their lives.