Fingers comb through a silvered swathe

soft to the touch when freshly washed.

It smells of Castile soap and tobacco

which increases with the aging day.

Sometimes cafuné is like a prelude

to more than the moment in hand

and echoes the young man he was.

And yet, there is more to be had

in the trace from root to tip.

A year of him good and bad

not seen but often felt.

When it thins or falls or smells

like the man he really is;

the honey thief of my lips.


© Talia Hardy 2014.



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