HIGHLIGHT

I am stumbling
through the smell of lemongrass
and pine needles, a rose petal
falling, my eyes squinting in the sun.
I will cut my hair if you want me to
or I will dye it
like grocery store flowers with blossoms
dyed blue. Buy them for five dollars
a bouquet, wrapped in green plastic--
but what is hair if not memory
made visible?
I am not who you think I am;
gingko leaves drift to the ground
while I swirl a paintbrush in water.
From now on
I will prune the trees in my own yard.
I will zest my own lemons,
sweep my own porch.
I will grow quiet in my own time,
but I will grow loud in yours.