She saves her hair in a grocery sack—
silken, silver strands,
that once hung to her waist,
coming out now in clumps
with each combing.
She's saving every thread until spring;
she'll scatter it in her yard
for jenny wrens and fat robins
to weave the fibers into nests,
for squirrels and little brown field mice
to pad the beds of spring litters.
Her daughter crochets cotton and wool
into caps of bright colors
to cover her mother’s cold baldness;
but more than that, she weaves a thread
that binds them to each other,
weaves them both deeper
into the fabric of life.
© by Larry Schug.
Used with the author’s permission.