What was the color of her hair, that first time we met
And all the times between.
I remember wildness and disarray and careless abundance
As if blown by gale-force winds.
But was it red, ochroid or gold, the color of golden lion
Or all those combined.
Too, I remember sleek perfumed mass lifting gently in the breeze
Soft to the touch.
Overcome, reverential, I bury my face in and inhale its sweetness
Like new-mown hay or the sweet smell of sphagnum
Or a just-bathed baby’s skin
But what was the color of her hair.