Your hair is like straw my mother would say-
she said as if I was of earth and the earth grew from my roots.
She gathered the ends- bundling wild yellow straw in her hands.
I can trim it for you if you like.
When nurtured- it would grow and grow, and she would brush it away as it fell into my eyes, it looks tucked away from your face she would say.
Now as an adult, it breaks dead at the end, tired and broken.
Hold still, she would say to child me, as she trimmed it, brushing it back and collecting it up from the bathroom ground, off the linoleum she hated but would take years to replace.
Come let’s leave it out for the birds for their nests, our feet touching the grass as my straw flew away in the wind.
We are of grass and earth.
