Four One

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