Hair Ribbons at the Faire
Hair ribbons hanging at the Renaissance Faire,
three feet of them, strung on a thread,
dozens of every color,
each one of them a thin strand of color for sale.
And not for much. A few coins
and the strand of your choice is yours,
a flicker to tie back your blonde, brunette, red hair,
a flicker of festiveness. A declaration
that even in this small way,
you give yourself to the fantasy.
You purchase one.
No matter your hair is thin and wispy
around your wrinkled face.
You wrap the color around your wrist
where it flutters with every step,
waves in the wind,
We need this. Fantasy.
to suspend belief, to lose oneself
in celebration and imagination,
to pretend the weight and darkness
is held back at the village walls
and live, if only for a while
in a place of music and color and costume.
And when it is over. When the last trumpet sounds
and the last corseted barmaid has sung her last song,
you will leave. Return home
and remove the bright ribbon from your wrist.
But you will not put it away.
You tie it to your desk lamp
where it sways in the summer wind,
We need this.
About this poem
I love Renaissance Faires. And old homes and castles. I love Disney. I losing myself in something more fantasy than reality. I believe it is good for us. Or at least, it is good for me. Part of the struggle of the past couple of years is that there has been too much reality, unrelenting and hard.
But if nothing else, it has reminded me of the value of a well chosen souvenir.
The picture is from a shop at the Sterling Renaissance Faire.