A Young Girl’s Blonde Hair

In sunlight it’s prairie grass
rippled by a wind,
a meadow rill that tumbles past
to yellow’s end.

A whisper of secrets shared
with cheeks and face
or captured in a braid, her hair
crocheted like lace.

At night it spills across her brow,
her frothy mane
bubbling and breathy, somehow

Someday begging to be kissed,
tasting like whipped cream.
A lover’s moon may pierce the mist
and cast a sheen.

But now she doesn’t need a moon
in her summer dreams,
illumined as she is in shafts
of champagne beams.





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