I heard about a site that offers prompts and encourages folks to write a poem in response to it. The prompt I responded to was a photo of a ladies hair brush with lots of hair in it. The brush was sitting on some rich looking fabric.
I’m not sure if this is really a poem. Maybe more a story, but it hits me in the feels, even though I wrote it…
Like many redheads, she was a force to be reckoned with.
I never tried to tame her. Even If I could have, why would I want to?
She said it was why she married me over the handsomer, richer ones around her.
The one thing that came close to taming her broke me.
She used to sit in this chair in the morning sun, her hair aglow in that light as she stroked it with the brush. She would tilt her head just so, with her eyes closed, and bring the brush through, one hundred slow strokes every morning. It reminded me of a lioness in the wild. She never tamed the curls.
She pretended not to notice me when I watched her.
The first clue was when too much hair was in the brush each morning.
Near the end, when there was nothing left to brush, she casually tossed the brush into the trashcan by the bathroom sink. “I guess I won’t need this anymore”.
I retrieved it later.
Puzzled, she saw it. Picked it up. Looked at me, looked at it, raised her eyebrow, sadly smiled, and set it back down.