by Chloe Batten
Enclosed for the winter. hibernation.
each strand runs through softly calloused hands,
firm, reassuring fingers whisper sweet nothings
to my newborn roots, like
over strand, one leads, one hides,
one follows, one leads
one hides, one follows
all clinging to each other for dear life,
sworn to protect the hair they hold,
to incubate the soul that lies within
my newborn roots.
Don’t mistake synthetics
for dormancy. like a cocoon they hide
growth and beauty,
and they too will die.
but as spring melts winter’s spite
and warmer air beckons hair
outside the neat twists and folds,
I follow nature’s cue.
in cathartic ritual,
old dead hair is laid aside.
my fingers run through soft curls,
This is home.
the feeling after a deep sigh
when lungs resettle.
feels like warmth and peace
and honey. this is my soul.
like Aunty Solange reminds me,
it is the rhythm,