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,
frothy champagne
bubbling and breathy, now

Someday begging to be kissed,
tasted like whipped cream,
The moon may shimmer through the mist
casting 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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