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.