Almost three months in, the day had come.
We placed our chairs on the deck, facing the gardens,
spring flowers blooming and birdsong blossoming, colors
bleached by the brilliant light of the midday sun.
like we’d staged a Damascene conversion;
invoking transformation, we could
no longer doubt that the world had changed,
and our lives
were on a different road.
You sat, and I draped your shoulders
with a towel,
lord of all you surveyed,
and I, your handmaiden, cut
your glittering hair,
then you cut mine, a strange new ritual,
that somehow stopped time, my breath,
Until now, this hadn’t seemed
Long ago, when girls prepared
to renounce the world–every
fascinating spectacle, tawdry lure and
gaudy spangle (and strangers,
surprises, and deep delight)–
their hair was shorn to mark the surrender.
Sometimes, they were offered
a crown of thorns,
for, not only were they turning
to confinement with shining grace,
but vowing to share
their life with
A robin darted down and snatched
a silver curl to weave
into his nest.
this is what it is now and
what it may be always–
the world renounced,
forgotten, silver curls
hanging from every tree brilliant
in the midday light,
us, on our chairs,
shorn and shining,
wearing our crowns of suffering,
sharing our life of grace.