The French Braid

The hair falls loosely ‘round her face.

In total disarray it lays.

It does not flatter her at all

and gives her face a look of pall.

The aimless way by which it lies

is seen reflected in her eyes.

There is no vision that leads on,

when her day’s energy is gone.

It just exists atop her head,

wakes up, does stuff, and goes to bed.

It grows in length but nothing else,

and doesn’t shine with vital health.

Until a thought occurs to her,

and in her heart begins to stir:

Why isn’t there a thought behind

the way her hair falls down her spine?

Why should it pointlessly exist-

So random, scattered and amiss-

when there are countless lovely ways

in which her hair can warrant praise?

She grabs a lock, and then the next

and slowly starts to weave the rest.

Each strand acquires point and place,

and she, a look of focused grace.

For she has now finally found,

A way in which her hair is bound

to single, unifying goal

in which each strand plays destined role.

And now it purposefully lies,

and even in her very eyes

the dullness of The Lost does fade

behind the glow of her french braid.