Ash Blonde Poem by e.e. wilholt

The color of my
hair (which is
called ash blond, not
dishwater or dirty
blond as those who spin
colloquialisms would like to
propagandize you—
and the long strands
light up gold
in unencumbered
sunshine) has
nothing to do with
who I am.

And I am
not the girl I once
was—she has traveled
light years from that
time and place.
Gray hairs
creep in now (though
some are plucked or
pulled) . I am not mature
because my hair is
growing in gray—the
light is dimming in
the season of my maturity.

(2008, for JR)