My hair could never be neatly groomed,
Couldn’t be tamed even with Shellac.
The frizzy hairs blew away over time,
Sadly, none of them ever grew back.
As good as I looked when leaving for work,
My hair in minutes was far from the norm.
I looked like I arrived inside a tornado;
Or a category 4, electrical storm.
I used to feel so embarrassed,
But now days, I just simply shrug…
I look like the “after” photographs
Of a moth-eaten woolen rug.
My mother warned, “Never pick your nose
You’ll stretch your nostrils big!
Imagine living the rest of your life,
With a face resembling a pig.”
My mother had deep “Frown lines”,
As if she lived a life of fear and fret.
If you didn’t blame light sensitivity,
You’d have missed the game show bet.
The history recorded in each face,
Hides mysteries no one knows…
I’m 70 and don’t look like a pig,
Yet I still secretly pick my nose!
Years ago, in Okie-ville,
I bought an abandoned farm.
The barren land and seasonal creek
Had to me, a special charm.
I started to remodel the house,
I created a large koi pond.
I installed a Japanese bridge,
And planted Weeping Willows beyond.
I purchased a grand piano,
Installed it by custom French Doors.
I’d play music well into the night,
Cows gathered in groups of fours.
One night I spied a bent over bird,
On a branch in the willow tree
There is a no greater threat to a Koi Pond
Than an Egret lurking or flying free.
Night after night he returned for the show,
He seemed to bob his head to the beat,
He showed an unusual respect for me,
And not one fish did he ever eat. .
Ten years later, before moving,
Before the piano was packed in the van…
I noticed the night heron was back,
To hear one last concert again.
I admit my piano playing was good…
The Egret was a discretionary bird.
Still now forty years later, his visits,
The best music my heart ever heard.
I felt an obligation
To play my nightly tune,
As if he was lord and master…
The bird who hangs the moon.
