Brushing Mary's Hair
"Come on, Mary, let me brush your hair.
Sit on the floor, and I'll spread my knees. There ...
Tilt your head into my lap. Close your eyes."
Gathering handfuls of waves that rise
Like a spring from her brow to my hands.
Stroking the brush through dark masses. Silver strands
Come alive in the half-light. Start at the crown.
Weave and plait. Weave and plait, all the way down.
The braid becomes thick as a river, and
I lift it, and gather it all in a band.
Underneath, there in the tender nape
Little tendrils like whorls and eddies escape.
© Lynne Harris
