You love her best untamed,
the hesitations a world, a past has beat into her,
released. The hair, wild,
free of chemicals and devices
meant to wrest it into control.
Morning hair. Love touseled hair,
a symbol of much more, an allowance
of freedom, an ignoring of expectations
the real you simply allowed.
More than that, treasured,
and finding something long lost:
About this poem
A love poem. A poem about allowing ourselves to be ourselves. A poem about morning hair.
The picture is of a friend’s hair, taken many years ago. I never thought it would be a poem, but there you go.