My grandmother nestles hair

in her flower beds to ward off

deer, who detest the smell.

She pulls the grey threads

from her brush, intending to help birds

as well, who take the strands for their nests.

Except for the occasional fox,

few creatures ever visit

my grandparent’s blooming beds

because of their house’s

woodland isolation. No other

humans grace the grounds,

though the shadows of alders

race across the lawn.

The trees encase the house in shade

while their unsung ages ellipse human life-spans.

My grandmother’s hair sprouts

from the earth grotesquely

in tufts half-buried by the dirt sprinkled over.

Most of it has yet to be collected by the birds.

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