By gray Davidson

Above lengthy furrows of winded grass,

Of timothy, of wheat, of farseedy wildflower,

Above the earth, the rich peat and fragile loam,

Bark and leaf rise strong, grasping for the sky.

Silent fingers team with a jar of loosèd butterflies,

Dark from recent dew, rain, or meadow mist.

String of hair, and golden branch clasp hands.

The star-flecked sound carries far away,

As the taught tresses tingle,

In the clawed clutches of playful zephyrs.

White hair, old and brittle, almost yellowed,

Yet spun by a motherly wind,

And on the night of a full moon, a blue moon,

Lost its grime and sheenèd silver.

A woman's hair, long gone, but not lost or dead.


The drums of hollow logs, the pipes of whispering leaves,

And over, through, around and above it all,

The soaring voice of a harp of human hair.

Blossoms, apple, cherry, and the tufts of dandelion coalesce.

No form, no substance, but fingers

Still to be seen, with touchings of the parading wind.

Fingers articulate, extend, and lick at the melting strings.

-This was mine once- she says.

A song of yesteryear without hope.

A song of mighty glories long past and forgotten.

A song of Heroes and of Love.

A song of defeat, of deathbeds, and of crypts.

A song of forgetfulness, of today.

-This was mine once- she says.

The wind picks up, a drop of rain falls.

Branches tossed by angered gods writhe and blossoms scatter.

Brittle hairs snap, leaving tree bald and tattered.

But the song of Heroes and Love continues.