Time, and the Groomed Girl
No furrows plowed in lands of loam
are as dark as hair in mama's comb,
and pride itself is not as proud
as is the one with head now bowed.
Mama's hair was, once, as black
and laid as long across the back,
though weaved, it was, into a braid:
the difference then that fashion made.
When years of heat and harvest meet,
and countless furrows give up the wheat;
the pompous girl will come to know
why her mama's hair is now white as snow.
If you have any comments on this poem, J.D. Heskin would be
pleased to hear from you.