By Annette Marie Hyder
I name you change and I am
untangling your three braids:
past, present, future.
The weaving of your tresses slips
through my fingers like waters
over grasses, over stones,
rippling waves laughing on their way
(sometimes a brook, sometimes a river)
to the ocean of what will be.
You are change and like water
you wash away mistakes, sins, detritus
(a baptism of sorts) —
sweep them away as flying fish dive
around the crown of flowers that you wear
(tessellated with thorns).
month of long days of warm sun
like a kiss to get lost in and only remember
where you are and what you are doing
under the prodding weight
of other people’s stares.
My eyelids are heavy with the drone of bees
and the scent of honeysuckle;
they tremble like flowers in the breeze
of the REM from dreams
of what will be.