When Bercynthia Braids Her Hair

When Bercynthia braids her hair
All God’s angels just stop and stare
Since her radiance the sun must share
For this woman is wild and rare
As she sits barefooted and proud
On a wobbly old kitchen stool
That she rescued from the curb one day
Where others less nobly inclined
Had discarded it meanly, yet now
It serves humbly, reborn as her throne
Where she sits by the hour with her comb
That’s as old as Methuselah’s teeth
Which are pulled through the soot of her crown
Savoring gold from the root to the end
Then will happily taste it again.

When Bercynthia braids her hair
All the heavens ignite with song
Until the wind blows fierce and strong
Unable to hold back the throng
Of energy thunderous and bold
From the plaiting of ebony bands
And the tapping of a restless foot
That beats out a rhythm sublime
Though no music is audibly there
‘Cept the whoosh of the comb through her hair
Which repeats its song by the hour
And causes the earth to still
As it waits for the next and the next
Moment when she’ll repeat what’s begun
Her creations will not be undone.

When Bercynthia braids her hair
Then the ancients of sky and sea
Abandon primordial decree
As nature forgets all but she
With her comb, and her stool and her foot,
And the yellowing lace of her slip
Which is hiked way up high on her thighs
Exposing the softness between
Dead dreams and replacements unborn
That are waiting this side of the sighs
Which escape her in frustrated huffs
As she reaches her arms overhead
Untangling some kink as she frowns
Like existence could end in this web
Of unruly obsidian thread.

When Bercynthia braids her hair
The divine and the commonplace
Meet head-on as they stand face-to-face
In this wretchedly wonderful place
Where beauty and ugliness dwell
Co-existing as juxtaposed twins
With this woman who lives unaware
Of the power her magnificence brings
Or the transcendent simplicity
In her actions performed everyday,
Which are better than rarefied gems
That sit coldly around silken throats
Of women who breathe barren lives
Yet who dare not approach her in dreams
For she is a woman supreme.

When Bercynthia braids her hair
A man working will sigh and smile
Watching her, he stops for awhile
Hypnotized by the sweep and the style
Of her luminous ferocity,
Barely breathing he closes his eyes
Remembering the evening before
When they sat side-by-side on the porch
Enjoying a whippoorwill’s cry
While he loosened each braid tenderly
‘Till her hair was released from its coils
And a thunderclap pounded the air
For the universe envies this man,
Who watches and waits quietly,
While Bercynthia braids carelessly.