Your short hair seems a signature, figure
so natural to your presence, glowing
semiframe to your smile. You gaze secure
in casual shag, brief bangs allowing
light for your smooth forehead, brows like gentle
dark rainbows receiving mist of soft lips.
As if your eyes weren’t enough, your mental
rhythms a power to balance earth’s tips
of ice and melt them to tears. Yet the gods
have infused their infinite artistry
in comb and scissors and sensitive nods
of sure hands. How to define history?
I’ll call it that lone mysterious grace
in your brown feathered cut, your gallant face.
Roger Armbrust
August 16, 2011
