Memory's Scythe

If your hair wasn't black
blue-black or browned out of a bottle
but green, with highlights
of yellow, wild-flowering
red, pink and yellow, and

If it had flowed down
longer than waist long, like love let loose,
it could have been
my monsoon world of grasses shoulder-high
where I crouched all those days

Lost -- questioning --
why the skies copiously flow down
their wetness coupling them to the earth
and rise skywards again in wet green
that summer's flaming sun scythe will burn.