Once her hair hung down
her back
rich, shiny, black
Like a crows’ or Grackles’ feathers
Or piled up tight
in a bun
stuck with pins
you could barely see
Now age has cropped it
to a utilitarian length
silver white it shines
from between the flowers
she has painstakingly nurtured
in her gardens
like the full spring moon
high
in the daytime sky.
© Erik Hansen 2016
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