Haircut

A haircut signals a new phase, like the moon,
each time she cuts even just a trim.
What all happened in between time
simply falls away, scattering like days
in clumps on the floor. I triumphantly tear
off two pages of my calendar which in my
stupor I had forgotten to turn. Now is time to return
to rhythm, keeping time with monthly
hair cuts as regular as menses, always the same way
always the same time, always the same
stylist who will ask me
how are the kids
how is your work
how would you like your hair
how's your garden
I respond with originality
each time although month to month
the answers blur together in my
effort to grow time, like hair
rich beyond the power of any conditioner. Time
to stretch time to kill
time to savor time to use
I would be lost without my hair.