The Color of Her Hair


What was the color of her hair, that first time we met

And all the times between.

I remember wildness and disarray and careless abundance

As if blown by gale-force winds.

But was it red, ochroid or gold, the color of golden lion

Or all those combined.

Too, I remember sleek perfumed mass lifting gently in the breeze

Soft to the touch.

Overcome, reverential, I bury my face in and inhale its sweetness

Like new-mown hay or the sweet smell of sphagnum

Or a just-bathed baby’s skin

But what was the color of her hair.