Angel Hair

I see you there, wide-eyed:
a child, in a doorway,
afraid not to enter,
escape not an option.

I hear your mind, darting
through treacherous traps of
psychotic, man monster
whom you must call, "father."

I feel you there, standing:
invisible, silent,
betrayed in pretending,
small, seething and surging.

I taste tears on your cheeks:
your mother's love dying,
while nobody tells you,
forbidden your closure.

But, mostly, I smell you:
your hair's sun, alfalfa,
fresh soap, fur and feathers,
warm scalp, sweet sweat Earth scent.

Your hair's declaration:
exuding the joyful
your body expresses,
kept free of detection.

Half century later:
your hair is rejoicing
in freedom from old ways,
in silent, soft vigil.

It rolls down your shoulders:
in honey curls flowing
as fine as an infant's;
it twinkles in sunlight.

It's throwing off sparklers:
gem blues, reds, and purples,
flame golds, greens and orange,
hypnotic, prismatic.

It stuns me to touch it.
It clings to my fingers.
It tugs at me, fondling.
It grasps me for reaching.

It's vines morning glory,
or tentacled tide pools,
small fingers of babies,
prehensile tailed kittens.

Your hair sings your love songs
as you rush to errands,
hike windy, wild mountains,
lean in to your reading.

Your mantle of power
floats golden in lamplight,
wafts silver in moonlight,
a sacred shawl shimmer.

Your wanton hair giggles,
wild, tender, seductive.
It undulates, dancing
its own, primal rhythm.

Your hair speaks those Secrets
you try to keep hidden;
your passion, your beauty
need always be spoken.

I love this child's tendrils,
this woman's locks, languid.
I'm pulled to surrender
to webwork in sunbeam.

To tangle my fingers
in hopeless abandon,
to dangle in star fire,
I'd not want for freedom.

I'd nuzzle my face here,
safe, shameless and nested,
to breathe deep of power:
aroma of childhood.