Wise Hair Kid
I shaved your beard in the back yard.
In their overgrown glory
your dense facial storm clouds
are surprisingly light.
The wind licks them up
and carries them to new lands,
the dandelion seeds of a man's face
or dead cell apostrophes
or shoddy hedge trimmings.
I can peek through the holes
to your secret brain garden party,
as my pigtails flop through the corn maze
where we meet again as free children faces.
