And my last one is also from Alberto Ríos from his book,
The Smallest Muscle in the Human Body.
And he calls this, "In The Strong Hold of her Thin Arms."
"My grandmother's hair was long.
Not long like nights filled with unsettling dreams which end.
Her hair was longer, like January growing to September.
So much was the care she gave each turn and fiber and knot
as she brushed.
To look at her hair, was to look hair by hair
as she did separately at each strand so
that to see it took two people side by side looking for days.
In her hair, she held the seasons--
the winters of its end, the autumn of its middle.
On her head, the heat of the sun.
And the heat of holding her head up
made a summer of her struggle.
People standing next to her after walking the desert,
could feel the warmth coming out of her hair.
Animals loved her.
They could hide forever in her hair
as she held them, could make their words
to her stay in the secluded world of her embrace.
And underneath, on the under side, the human light rain
of water and sweat, the strong wide roots
of this great hair river with its tide and its 100 years.
Each one on a given length of hair, a thought or a dream
or worry so that her words reached out
like so many thin arms.
And listening to her when she's saying and when she hummed,
was to be held."
Thank you.