It’s 35 degrees out,
but I’m wearing my hair loose,
because it feels so good,
to have it stroke my back,
though the smooth tresses tickle,
they sway so light.
Brown-black waves,
nourished by the warmth within,
carried by the breeze without,
flirt with a girlish ease,
though the damp air stifles,
they hiss a good fight.
Back and forth,
the strands swing and fickle,
play with the slight wind,
and make love to the skin,
though the caresses tingle,
they tarry on for Aphrodite.
