Hair Poem by Lisa Zaran

As if we have
any answers.
Still, we imply.

All that I have come
to believe in:

the measurement of time,
the presence of light,
the moon, gaping at us.

Across the lake
there is a girl
running her fingers
through her waist length hair.

Or is it a shadow of something else?

It's intriguing. I am intrigued by her.
By the slow split she makes
in that curtain of hair.
By the moonlight and it's cravings.

This has been one of the longest days.