Earth's Hair . . .
If I could count the hairs on your head,
I would count each one
with pine needles frosted white, or
as elm leaves drifting yellow in the wind, blowing free,
or in the tiny filaments of jellyfish swimming,
swimming in the sea. I see cities ratcheted up
your hills and at night, stars scattered on the ground.
And if I were lonely, I'd wrap myself
in dreams of you and never sleep.
Beth Camp is on the road, most recently in South America. Her short stories and poems have appeared in Fickle Muses and The Eloquent Umbrella, among others. She's working on Standing Stones, a novel of the clearances set in Scotland, 1840. Previous publications: Mermaid Reflections and Effective Workplace Writing. She blogs here.