Her Hair

Her Hair

If a woman could be all hair, she would be all hair.
Red veil falling in waves,
like a cataract of blood,
to the middle of her back,
covering her blue eyes,
like holes in the ceiling on a summer day,
when she leans forward to touch my face.

But hair is some remnant of a million years ago,
useless now except for love,
and she
is a million things:
warm hand on my cheek,
a sigh after a long day's work,
a laugh like shattered glass,
views:  economy, deity, society,
vast planetary systems of feeling:  love and love and more love.

She feels for the whole human race.
I don't have time to write a poem about her;
no one does.
This is just a start:  hair.

David Flynn