Like a lion’s mane it wreathes your head,
and tumbles down your back,
rests against your spine.
Tracks of blue loop through earth brown,
like your sadness has leaked through your scalp,
into your hair.
Sometimes it is braided,
and frames your face,
like stripped ribbons.
Strands, tangle across your face in the wind,
shades your hands as orange light flares and dies.
I rest my face against your hair
and breathe in, smoke and warmth,
it smells like our friendship.
Please, don’t cut it off.