Don’t cut your long hair,
silk weft,
flag of a life,
even now, over the cheeks
less full, a little emptied by the years,
then only filled up
by your good will.
Don’t cut them
you’d wrong me.
Don’t yield to the simply
obtuse discourse
Of who wants to command,
and classify everything,
preaching, sure to know
what’s right for you,
what are the time, the thoughts,
the places,
even the verses and the notes
right for you.
And considerately even thinks
about the fashion, the cut
of your hair.
Knowing nothing
about Samson
nor the magical power
of your long hair.
June 30, 2004
