Silver strands fall from her high-held head
To the hot wood against her feet
As fingers comb through what remains
Of the locks that had been left to grow
Too long, far too long, for too long
Another stands above her, younger,
Looking down upon her mother,
And I observe them–me, a voyeur–
Gaze upon she who made me
As she tends to she who made her
Silver strands fall from the bangs above her eyes,
From the tresses on her shoulders,
Fall all the way down, left to burn
Beneath the same sun that tinges our skin,
Made of the same cells, the same shade of pink
The tenderness of her daughter’s caresses
As she dulls the harsh tug of the scissors
Can be sensed from six feet away
Like a phantom touch that yearns
To be borne into being
And I feel my own strands now, atop my head,
On my shoulders, feel them in my eyes now,
Struggle to see through them to watch
The pair exist, both a part of and apart from,
And I think–it’s time for a haircut