When house arrest began, eight months ago,
I set myself a challenge – I would write
a poem to post each day. I didn’t know
(who did?) how long and weaponless the fight
would be, contagious ignorance the foe,
and never planned to never cut my hair.
But I’ve had time to watch each tendril grow,
and bought barrettes and clips and bands to wear.
I figured I would see where growing went
(salons were closed and shoulder injury
beset my stylist anyway). I’ve spent
eight months in growing hair and poetry,
and I’ll admit I’m liking both so far –
they’re positives in living gone bizarre.