Strands I washed,
full of heavy emotion.

Grief worn tangible
for a year
before I could bear
carrying less.

The ritual.

Braid cut off,
shaved close enough
to feel sunshine
kissing my temple.

A section of hair
given up
to hear better

what the rain cries about,
angels singing,
my God
and His laughter.

I sat beneath the shears
wondering
if I’d feel this horrible relief
had I done it sooner.

I believe in perfect timing.
Even tragedy
holds mirror

It is right.

Sheared down,
I am softer now.