Invasive bastards.
Popping up
fast as milkweed,
and when I pull one
it snaps off at the root
and grows back stronger.
Stinging my scalp
like foxtails,
burrs rubbing
the skin raw.
Defeated
and deflated
I ponder shades
of hair dye
as my soul
shrinks a bit more.
2 comments:
I like the language of the first two stanzas: very organic and naturalesque (yes, this word does not exist). The use of of milkweed and foxtails enhances this tone, fitting for the process of aging. I wonder if you can shift the language more overtly in the final stanza: the stumbled a bit on the final image of the soul shrinking. Still good stuff, and I'm impressed by your ability to sustain a high quality of work day after day.
I agree with Edward, the first stanza is organic and the tone is strong too. The poem moves from the natural to the artificial--
and there's a sense of desperation in the last stanza.
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