LXXXII: A Golden Colored Brand

His golden colored hair was much like mine.

I notice every time I take a comb.

A dozen passes bring the strands in line,

and as I work, my mind begins to roam.

His scalp was blemished often. Mine is whole.

Each brushstroke meant much more to him than mine.

Betimes they tarred his blond as black as coal.

I’ve only done the same by way of dye.

There’s strewn across the footfalls of the saints

the strands of golden hair that fell too young.

And Lucy’s cries, her crippling complaints,

resound about the ground of every one.

I’ll comb mine back like he did, if I can.

The least that I can do to praise the man.