A coarse white hair,
crinkled and contrary;
a snowmelt river in a black sable sea.
My unruly hair grows unrulier,
beginning its slow silver shift,
impatient with age.
How strange to begin to grow old,
when I’ve always been old.
Half a lifetime, already gone.
I’m mourning a youth never lived,
its loss counted dearly with
each turncoat strand.