GREY

Grey’s the hair color you can’t buy.
I tried. I urged my hairdresser to
change my entire head.
“Not possible”, he said
“although new grandmothers
often ask.”
 
It’s good perhaps
some things remain
beyond our grasp
Time’s provenance
to bestow
If we’re so
blessed.
 
My grey hair
like my mom’s
lifts from my brow
on just one side.
I’ve left it pale since
the February day
she died.

Published by

Cynthia M. Sheward

Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement. Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media. She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.

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