Morning poetry flow -

December 8,
2005

I count my toes this morning -

ten lovely toes,

ten swerving fingers

waiting to respond,

two legs, two feet,

two arms,

complete with elbows,

fluid -

so why so sad

why does the loss of hair

pull me down

like a sad, sad clown -

I sit here like a bare bear -

the old nursery rhyme

rumbling forth -

        “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.

            Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.

            Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?”



Is that what we want to be,  fuzzy, and, 
by implication,  cute?

Are we mammals attached to hair and motherhood,

nursing our young,

not like the lizard who lays eggs and walks off -

but wait, alligators are attentive -

turtles not so much, but

mother pythons and king cobras protect their eggs - -



Hmmm, is this Samson to the fore?  Samson’s hair was his strength.

He was captured when it was cut, and when it grew back,  he escaped.



Hair means grooming and identification, blonde, redhead, brunette.  Bald?



Without my hair, my eyes seem huge.   What else is there to see but blue moons?

Maybe this is my once in a blue moon, and with a hat jauntily
placed, who would even know -



I march into the world,

like a penguin,

bare, and not so bare,

brave, and not so brave.

I have no hair

to wipe the tears

that stand like lakes

at dawn -

the sun is pleased to gaze

and so am I -

Life is in the smile,

and that is mine to groom.