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I was looking for an appropriate poem for New Year's Eve. It had to be a poem full of hope. I came up with the poem below.
When my daughter was very young, I used to braid her hair. After her bath, she would kneel in front of me, and I would go to work. I loved those few minutes of complete and total surrender and trust that my daughter gave me. It was one of my favorite daily rituals.
So, I couldn't think of a better way to end this year then looking back, meditating, praying.
Happy New Year's Eve to all my faithful disciples.
Braiding My Daughter's Hair
by: Martin Achatz
She lies
on her back,
hair
floating around
her head
like kelp
in the
Pacific,
sea otters
diving
in and out
of the
brown waves.
She hears
water
swimming
in her ears,
along her
five-year-old
limbs,
skin smooth
as fresh
snow,
feet and
hands perfect,
nails like
pink snail shells.
When I
wrap her
in the
towel,
she puts
her cheek
against my
shoulder.
Her wet
heat soaks
through my
tee shirt,
into my
skin.
I feel her
breath
on my
neck,
like
August rain.
I rub her
dry,
squeeze
her hair
in the
terry cloth folds.
Her
just-clean body
squeaks
against my fingertips.
I dress her.
She grips
my head
for
balance as she steps
into her
panties,
raises her
arms
as I slip
the nightgown
over her
head,
watch her
boy
chest and
hips
disappear
beneath flannel.
She sits
in my lap.
I pick up
the brush,
test for
knots and nests.
The teeth
of the brush
glide and
stop,
pick and
untangle.
I repeat
the motions,
gather a
thick rope
of hair at
the back
of her
skull.
I slip the
pink tie
over the
hair,
to the
base,
pull it
tight,
the way a
sailor
secures a
rope
on a dock.
I divide
the hair
into three
strands,
begin to
braid,
looping,
crossing, pulling,
looping,
crossing, pulling,
this
eternal rhythm
of the
planets
circling
the sun,
the moon
dragging
ocean to
rock and sand,
a farmer
sowing
seed in
black earth,
my
daughter stretching,
growing
like winter wheat.
Please vote for Saint Marty:
Voting for next Poet Laureate of the U. P.
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