barber

scissors small birds on my head
each cut a lesson in letting go
my mother still snips my hair
despite the years of years

she hums a song from my childhood
i cannot recall
she says i would look better blonder

soon she will stop
later,
she will never cut my hair again

how will my mane look then
where will the ends grow
there at the end of growth

the room is wet with sunshine
be still, she tells me now,
as the soft afternoon fades too