Her hair teased the evening;
Little feather flicks,
A dance on the wind,
A wordless banter
With the twilit Sun,
Who blinked in reply -
Coy, gentle hues of
Mulberry and amethyst.

“What a sly troublemaker, that Orb!”
Thought her tresses.

For, in one, slight tilt of her head
Embered umbers were caught to blaze
On account of their brilliance;
To which the Sun countered –
A slant - causing strands to go gold;
While other layers, lost in depth,
Paused,
Patient to glimmer in the glory
Of another day cast to gloam.

“The allure,”
Thought her merry mane,
“is the ignition, that moment
Just before the flash,
Just before the cull of hush,
Just before the inky black of summation."

Try, though she might,
To keep all the rebels
In a tidy group,
They wildly resist,
Possessing a mind
Entirely their own,
Bent toward tempting
The spark of another fire.

05/11/2011

Author's Note: It was sunset, and the light was playing in my hair. I wanted so badly to paint it in words, to share the experience. I generally find so little about myself worthy of mention, that when something magical happens and I actually feel POSITIVE about myself, I don't mind sharing it. At any rate, I don't feel entirely happy with the outcome of my attempt to capture those moments between the sun and my hair, so I'm definitely open to suggestions!

Posted on 05/11/2011
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