Beard
I am still swimming in dreamland.
Over, under, down through this little wave
and that, the clear and the murk, the dark
and the light. Twenty years ago I had my
powers (ha!) as I do again now. I have
been my own Delilah, purposely shearing,
but now my graybeard kinks and tangles weird.
There are no candles, no fireplace to stare
hard into, wild curls catching the light from
wild curls of flame.
The beard of the philosopher—
as my father, so am I—
or would like to be. Would like to be
the wild man of the wood I once was—
the drunken poet, the one who ponders
deep into the night and hears the rooster,
the coyotes. The one who buries himself
in books in order to climb out from under
and follow the path deeper into the deeper
forest.
My wild weird beard will stay.
3
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